The Traveller's Return (1)/The Traveller's Return

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THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN.

Tune-Auld Lang Syne

When silent Time, wi’ lightly foot.
⁠Had trod on thirty years,
My native land I sought again,
⁠Wi’ mony hopes and fears.
Wha kens, thought I, if friends I left
⁠Will aye continue mine;
Or gin I e’er again shall meet
⁠The joys I left langsyne.

As I drew near my ancient pile,
⁠My heart beat a’ the way;
Ilk place I pass’d seem’d yet to speak
⁠Of some dear former day;
Those days that follow’d me afar.
⁠Those happy days of mine;
Which made me think the joys at hand
⁠Were naething to lang syne.

My ivied tow’rs now met my een,
⁠Where minstrels us’d to blaw,
Nae friend stept put wi’ open arm's—
⁠Nae weel kend face I saw-—
Till Donald totter’d to the door,
⁠Whom I left in his prime;
And grat to see the lad come hame
⁠He bore about lang syne.

I ran to ilka weel kend place,
⁠In hopes to find friends there;
I saw where mony a ane had set,
⁠I hung on mony a chair;
Till soft remembrance threw a veil
⁠Across these een o’ mine;
I shut the door, and sobb'd aloud,
⁠To think on auld langsyne.

A new sprung race o’ motly kind
⁠Would now their welcome pay,
Wha shudder’d at my gothic wa’s,
⁠And wish’d my groves av/ay;
‘Cut down these gloomy trees,’ they cried
⁠‘Lay low yon mournful pine,’—
Ah! no; your fathers’ names are there,
⁠Memorials o’ lang sync.

To win me frae these waefu’ thoughts,
⁠They took me to the town;
Where soon, in ilka weel kend face,
⁠I miss’d the youthfu’ bloom.
At balls they pointed to a nymph,
⁠Whom alll declar’d divine;
But cure her mother’s blushing face
⁠Was fairer far lang syne.

In vain I sought in music’s sound.
⁠To find that magic art.
Which oft in Scotland’s ancient lays
⁠Has thrill’d thro’ a’ my heart.
The sang had mony an artfu’ turn;
⁠My ear confess’d ’twas fine—
But miss’d the simple melody
⁠I listen’d to lang syne.

Ye sons to comrades o’ my youth.
⁠Forgive an auld man’s spleen,
Wha, midst your gayest scenes, still mourns
⁠The days he ance has seen.
When time is past, and seasons fled.
⁠Your hearts may feel like mine,
And aye the sang will maist delight
⁠That minds you o’ lang syne.