Auld Scotia's Sangs! Auld Scotia's Sangs!—the strains o' youth and yore!—
O lilt to me, and I will list—will list them o'er and o'er;
Though mak' me wae, or mak' me wud,—or changefu' as a child,
Yet lilt to me, and I will list—the "native wood notes wild!"

They mak' me present wi' the past—they bring up, fresh and fair,
The Bonnie Broom o' Cowden Knowes, the Bush abune Traquair,
The Dowie Dens o' Yarrow, or the Birks o' Invermay,
Or Catrine's green and yellow Woods in autumn's dwining day!

They bring me back the holms and howes whar siller burnies shine,
The Lea-rig whar the gowans glint we pu'd in Auld Lang Syne;
And, mair than a', the Trystin' Thorn that blossom'd down the vale,
Whar gloamin' breathed sae sweetly—but far sweeter luve's fond tale!

Now melt we o'er the lay that wails for Flodden's day o' dule,—
And now some rant will gar us loup like daffin' youth at Yule;—
Now o'er young luve's impassion'd strain our conscious heart will yearn,—
And now our blude fires at the call o' Bruce o' Bannockburn!

O! lovely in the licht o' sang the Ettrick and the Tweed,
Whar shepherd swains were wont to blaw auld Scotia's lyric reed;—
The Logan and the Lugar, too, but, hallow'd meikle mair,
The Banks and Braes o' bonnie Doun,—the Afton and the Ayr!

The hind whase hands are on the pleugh—the shepherd wi' his crook—
The maiden o'er the milkin' pail, or by the ingle neuk,
Lo'e weel to croon auld Scotia's sangs—O may they ever sae!
And it may be a daffin' lilt—may be a dowie lay!

Though warldly grief and warldling's guile maun I like ithers dree,
Maun thole the sair saigh rive my breist—the het tear scald my e'e!
But let me list the melodies o' some o' Scotia's sangs,
And I will a' forget my waes—will a' forgie my wrangs!

O! born o' feeling's warmest depths—o' fancy's wildest dreams,
They're twined wi' monie lovely thochts, wi' monie lo'esome themes;
They gar the glass o' memorie glint back wi' brichter shine
On far aff scenes, and far aff friends—and Auld Lang Syne!

Auld Scotia's Sangs!—Auld Scotia's Sangs!—her "native wood notes wild!"
Her monie artless melodies, that move me like a child;
Sing on—sing on! and I will list—will list them o'er and o'er,—
Auld Scotia's Sangs!—Auld Scotia's Sangs!—the sangs o' youth and yore!

Song sweetens toil, however rude the sound:
⁠All at her work the village maiden sings:
Nor, while she turns the giddy wheel around,
⁠Revolves the sad vicissitude of things.