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Updated: June 2, 2025
The essence of a dank and misty day in late autumn has never been seized with more perfect truth than in these lines: "Cold grew the foggy morn, the day was brief, Loose on the cherry hung the crimson leaf; The dew dwelt ever on the herb; the woods Roar'd with strong blasts, with mighty showers the floods: All green was vanish'd, save of pine and yew, That still displayed their melancholy hue; Save the green holly with its berries red, And the green moss that o'er the gravel spread."
"And now the storm blast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong: He struck with his o'er-taking wings, And chased us south along. With sloping masts and dipping prow, As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe, And forward bends his head, The ship drove fast, loud roar'd the blast, And southward aye we fled."
We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, Frae mornin' sun til dine:* But seas between us braid hae roar'd, Sin auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, etc. And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine; And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught, * For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, etc.
"It was a dark and fearful winter night, Loud roar'd the tempest round our hovel home; Cold, hungry, wet, and weary was our plight, And still we listen'd for his step to come. My poor sick mother! 'twas a piteous sight To see her shrink and shiver, as our dome Shook to the rattling blast; and to the door She crept, to look along the bleak, black moor.
The loud wind roar'd, the rain fell fast; The White Man yielded to the blast: He sat him down, beneath our tree; For weary, sad, and faint was he; And ah, no wife, or mother's care, For him, the milk or corn prepare. The White Man, shall our pity share; Alas, no wife or mother's care, For him, the milk or corn prepare.
And when like a languishing bird I was fain To the home of my fathers and my love to return, Of a sudden the fierce tempest roar'd amain; So I saw my wings shatter'd and no home remain, My trust sold to others and wrecks round me burn.
I courted Poll, a buxom lass; when I return'd A.B., I bought her ear-rings, hat, and shawl, a sixpence did break we; At last 'twas time to be on board, so, Poll, says I, farewell; She roar'd and said, that leaving her was like a funeral knell. So she did pump, As I did jump In the boat, and said, "Good bye;" But as for me, With the rate A B, To cry was all my eye.
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