Now boys! all together!
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu'd the gowans fine;
But we've wandered mony a weary foot,
Sin' auld lang syne.
The world was wide then.
We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,
Frae mornin' sun till dine:
the log fire seems to grow watery, for in wide, lonely Australia—
But seas between us braid hae roar'd,
Sin' auld lang syne.
The kitchen grows dimmer, and the forms of the digger-singers seemed suddenly vague and unsubstantial, fading back rapidly through a misty veil. But the words ring strong and defiant through hard years:
And here's a hand, my trusty frien',
And gie's a grup o' thine;
And we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
. . . . .
And the nettles have been growing for over twenty years on the spot where Granny Mathews' big bark kitchen stood.