Robert Hetrick

Auld Lang Syne

	How pleasant were our infant years, 
		How guileless were our joys,
	When mix’d with less intruding cares
		That a’ our peace destroys:
	Nae crimes within our youthful breasts
		To sorrow or repine,
	For then we were completely blest
		In Auld Langsyne.

	The youthful heart unknown to guile,
		Nae fraud nor cunning knew,
	To garnish hatred with a smile,
		Or falsehood with a view:
	We loved our friend, we loved our lass,
		Without a dark design,
	And knew not what resentment was
		In Auld Langsyne.

	We blythely hail’d the purple morn
		Upon yon mountain’s brow,
	Or rallied round the milk-white thorn
		Our pastimes to renew:
	In a’ our sports, in a’ our plays,
		Wherein we strove to shine,
	We never felt remorse in days
		Of Auld Langsyne.

	But soon the days of youthful mirth
		Evanish and decay,
	And age and care are ushered forth
		To claim the gloomy sway:
	And e’en though age its joys bestow,
		The rarest of their kin,
	They never make the bosom glow
		Like Auld Langsyne.

	Thy silver streams, bonnie Doon,
		How dear they were to me,
	And still it is my chiefest boon
		To roam thy valleys free:
	Yet a’ your fields so richly dressed,
		Wi’ flowers so gay and fine,
	They never touch the anxious breast
		Like Auld Langsyne.

	But why has youth a fund of joy
		That is to age denied,
	Or why can age the bless destroy,
		And set the charm aside?
	Our infant cares we soon forget,
		Its joys we keep in min’,
	And then in age we weep and fret
		For Auld Langsyne.

	But let us bear wi’ warl’s care,
		As well as wi’ its joy,
	And let nae care or crosses here
		Our happiness destroy:
	But aye let friendship, love, and truth,
		Around our hearts entwine,
	And aye we’ll sing the days o’ youth
		And Auld Langsyne.