The wide world is all before us - but a world without a friend.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min?
Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white-then melts for ever . . .
Dweller in yon dungeon dark, Hangman of creation, mark! Who in widow weeds appears, Laden with unhonoured years, Noosing with care a bursting purse, Baited with many a deadly curse?
The snowdrop and primrose our woodlands adorn, and violets bathe in the wet o' the morn.
Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlet plays.