Anither Games. It trysts them back
Like salmon up the burn —
The glen fowk, the Ben fowk, sae thick ye canna turn
Fur frienly Celtic bourichies; the faimlies intertwine
An ay the ripple throw the claik is
Auld Lang Syne.

Heid bummer in his tartan trock is Jock the gamie's loon
An in a kilt — he canna fill't — some like his grannie's goun.

Yon's Maisie Wabster! Lord, she's aged! It caas ye aff yer stot
Tae tyne a siller shullin, an boo doon tae fin' a groat.

An Attie; fu's a puggie, sowsed's a pickelt herrin creel...
Fa cried in tae weet his thrapple, ay, an wat it ower weel.

Yonder's Donald. Sic a twinklin luik
Wad gar a body blush
Fur ilkie quine he coortit, Donald turned their hairts tae smush

Fits this yer sayin tae me? Gin ye hidna wed wi Belle
Ye'd hae taen a secunt notion; ye'd hae merriet me yersel?
Awa wi ye! ye'r haverin! Yon's styte that winna sit!
It's guid tae see, wi' oot ae lee, ye hinna cheenged a bit!