Auld Lang Syne

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne*?

    CHORUS:
    For auld lang syne, my jo,
    for auld lang syne,
    we’ll tak' a cup o’ kindness yet,
    for auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup!
and surely I’ll be mine!
And we’ll tak' a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes,
and pou’d the gowans fine;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,
sin' auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,
frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
sin' auld lang syne.

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere!
and gie's a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll tak' a right gude-willie waught,
for auld lang syne.

Nollaig Shona Dhuit

The Yuil E’en

T’wis the Yuil e’en, whan aw throu the hoose
Nae a beastie wis steerie, nae e’en a moose.
The hose war hing bi the lum wi care,
I’ howps ‘at St Nicholas suin wad bi thare.

The weans war nestled aw cosh i’ thair beids,
While veesions of succar-ploums dance i’ thair heids.
An hen in her curtch, an ah in ma cadie,
Haed juist sattkelt doun for a lang winter’s dover.
Whan oot on the green thare arose sic a brattle,
Ah breesit frae the beid tae see whit wis the maiter.

Awa tae the windae ah flew like a glent,
Rive appen the bairges an thraw up the chess.
The muin on the breest o the new-fawen snaw
Gae the lustre o twaloors tae objects ablo.

Whan, whit tae ma wunnert een shoud compear,
But a wee sleigh, an eicht wee reindeer.
Wi a wee auld driver, sae birkie an swipper,
Ah kent in a maument it must be St Nick.

Mair swith than eagles his courseirs thay cam,
An he whistled, an shootit, an cawed thaim by name!
“Nou Dasher! Nou, Dancer! Nou, Prancer an Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! On Donner an Blitzen!
Tae the tap o the portche! Tae the tap o the waw!
Nou dash awa! Dash awa! Dash awa aw!”
As dry blades ‘at afore the wild skailwind flee,
Whan thay meet wi’ sticks, lowp tae the lift.

Sae up tae the hoose-tap the courseirs thay flew,
Wi’ the sleigh fou o toys, an St Nicholas tae.
An than, in a prinkle, ah haurd on the ruif
The brankit an pautit o ilk wee cluif.

As ah drew in ma heid, an wis turnt aroond,
Doun the lum St. Nicholas cam wi a lowp.
He wis dressed aw in fur, frae his heid tae his buits,
An hus claes war aw tairnisht wi ess an suit.

A bunnle o toys he hae flung on his back,
An he leukit like a cadger, just appent his pack.
His een—hou thay glentit! His dimples hou mirkie!
His cheeks war like roses, his nib like a cherry!
His droll wee gab wis drawn up like a bowe,
An the beard o his chin wis as white as the snaw.
The runt o a gun he huild ticht in his teeth,
An the feuch it encircled his heid like a wreath.
He hae a braid face an a wee roond kyte,
‘At sheuk, whan he laucht, like a bowlful o jeely!
He wis chuffie an gausie, a richt sonsie auld elf,
An ah laucht whan ah saw him, in maugre o masel!
A wink o his een an a twistle o his heid,
Suin gae me tae ken ah hae nocht tae dreid.

He spak nae a wird, but gaed straucht tae his wark,
An fillit aw the hose; than turnt wi a jirk.
An laying his finger aside o his nib,
An giein a nod, up the lum he rose!
He breest tae his sleigh, tae his team gae a whistle,
An awa thay aw flew like the doun o a thristle.
But ah haurd him golder, ‘ere he druive oot o sicht,
“Merry Christmas tae aw, an tae aw a Guid-nicht!”

High Flight

Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds -- and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of -- wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.

Up, up the long, delirious burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew.

And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.


 John Gillespie Magee - RCAF

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie,

              In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

              In Flanders fields.

Dr. John McRae

 

Hymn of the Knights Templars

MOTHER of God! as evening falls   
  Upon the silent sea,   
And shadows veil the mountain walls,   
  We lift our souls to thee!   
From lurking perils of the night,            
  The desert's hidden harms,   
From plagues that waste, from blasts that smite,   
  Defend thy men-at-arms!   
 
Mother of God! thy starry smile   
  Still bless us from above!     
Keep pure our souls from passion's guile,   
  Our hearts from earthly love!   
Still save each soul from guilt apart   
  As stainless as each sword,   
And guard undimmed in every heart     
  The image of our Lord!   
 
In desert march or battle's flame,   
  In fortress and in field,   
Our war-cry is thy holy name,   
  Thy love our joy and shield!     
And if we falter, let thy power   
  Thy stern avenger be,   
And God forget us in the hour   
  We cease to think of thee!   
 
Mother of God! the evening fades     
  On wave and hill and lea,   
And in the twilight's deepening shades   
  We lift our souls to thee!   
In passion's stress—the battle's strife,   
  The desert's lurking harms,     
Maid-Mother of the Lord of Life,   
  Protect thy men-at-arms!

John Hay

Jerusalem

And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England’s mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England’s pleasant pastures seen?

And did the Countenance Divine Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold: Bring me my Arrows of desire: Bring me my Spear : O clouds unfold ! Bring me my Chariot of fire.

I will not cease from Mental Fight, Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand Till we have built Jerusalem In England’s green & pleasant Land.

William Blake

Lament for Flodden

I’VE heard them lilting  at our ewe-milking,   
  Lasses a’ lilting before dawn o’ day;   
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning—
  For the Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.   

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,           
  Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae;   
Nae daffin’,  nae gabbin’, but sighing and sabbing,   
  Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.   

In har’st,  at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,   
  Bandsters are lyart, and runkled,  and gray;           
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching—    
  The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.   

At e’en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming   
  ’Bout stacks wi’ the lasses at bogle to play;   
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie—           
  The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.   

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!   
  The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;   
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,   
  The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.           

We’ll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking;   
  Women and bairns are heartless and wae;   
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning—   
  The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.   

Jane Elliot

Say Not the Struggle Naught Availeth

SAY not the struggle naught availeth,   
  The labour and the wounds are vain,   
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,   
  And as things have been they remain.   

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;           
  It may be, in yon smoke conceal’d,   
Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,   
  And, but for you, possess the field.   

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,   
  Seem here no painful inch to gain,           
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,   
  Comes silent, flooding in, the main.   

And not by eastern windows only,   
  When daylight comes, comes in the light;   
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!           
  But westward, look, the land is bright!   


Arthur Hugh Clough

On a Wing and a Prayer

One of our planes was missing
Two hours overdue
One of our planes was missing
With all its gallant crew
The radio sets were humming
We waited for a word
Then a noise broke
Through the humming and this is what we heard

Comin' in on a wing and a prayer
Comin' in on a wing and a prayer
Though there's one motor gone
We can still carry on
Comin' in on a wing and a prayer

What a show, what a fight, boys
We really hit our target for tonight
How we sing as we limp through the air
Look below, there's our field over there
With just one motor gone
We can still carry on
Comin' in on a wing and a prayer

Harold Adamson and Jimmie McHugh