Page:Traveller's return (1).pdf/3

 And grat to see the lad come hame

He bore about lang syne.

I ran to ilka weel kend place,

In hopes to find friends there;

I saw where mony a ane had set,

I hung on mony a chair;

Till soft remembrance threw a veil

Across these een o’ mine;

I shut the door, and sobb'd aloud,

To think on auld langsyne.

A new sprung race o’ motly kind

Would now their welcome pay,

Wha shudder’d at my gothic wa’s,

And wish’d my groves av/ay;

‘Cut down these gloomy trees,’ they cried

‘Lay low yon mournful pine,’—

Ah! no; your fathers’ names are there,

Memorials o’ lang sync.

To win me frae these waefu’ thoughts,

They took me to the town;

Where soon, in ilka weel kend face,

I miss’d the youthfu’ bloom.

At balls they pointed to a nymph,

Whom alll declar’d divine;

But cure her mother’s blushing face

Was fairer far lang syne.