Och the loch, another year
out stays its welcome,
and I will forgive a tear,
as I drink a wee dram to toast
what leaves and what draws near.
Now even Sassenachs,
tuther side of Hadrian’s Wall,
will be singing Auld Lang Syne,
though they never toss a caber tall.
Knowing only a few words,
not knowing what they mean,
but I will not begrudge them
in my kilt of tartan brown and green.
Robbie Burns was a Lowlander,
but I can forgive him that,
up here in my Highland croft
where no field is ever flat.
An Irishman once told me,
he saw a haggis hopping in the glen.
A rare sight, I told him,
and wrote down the where and when.
I will drink to my bonny Flora,
she still makes my bannocks burn.
I will play the old pipe tunes for her,
till she grinds me like a quern.
Though mist may gloom the mountain,
and rain may flood the brae,
I wish you not thorns and thistles,
but a happy Hogmanay.