John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw, But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo!

He turn'd him right and round about Upon the Irish shore; And gae his bridle reins a shake, With adieu forevermore, My dear- And adieu forevermore!

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer; A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's …

Now a' is done that men can do, And a' is done in vain.

Nearly all marriages, even happy ones, are mistakes: in the sense that almost certainly (in a more perfect world, or even with a little more care in this very …

Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss: My own sweet Alice, we must die. There's somewhat in this world amiss Shall be unriddled by and by. There's somewhat flows…

And still to love, though prest with ill, In wintry age to feel no chill, With me is to be lovely still, My Mary!