Shid Ald Akwentans Bee Firgot…

All right, my loves, if we are going to bid farewell to this tired old year, let’s have Robert Burns lead us, as though it were 1788, in singing his poetic creation. Clear your throats, tune your pipes, and pull out your best Scottish accent, which will not be too difficult, because I have provided it for you. Tissue in one hand, pint in the other; are you ready? Mr Burns, please begin…

Shid ald akwentans bee firgot,
an nivir brocht ti mynd?
Shid ald akwentans bee firgot,
an ald lang syn?

Fir ald lang syn, ma jo,
fir ald lang syn,
wil tak a cup o kyndnes yet,
fir ald lang syn.

An sheerly yil bee yur pynt-staup!
an sheerly al bee myn!
An will tak a cup o kyndnes yet,
fir ald lang syn.

We twa hay rin aboot the braes,
an pood the gowans fyn;
Bit weev wandert monae a weery fet,
sin ald lang syn.

We twa hay pedilt in the burn,
fray mornin sun til dyn;
But seas between us bred hay roard
sin ald lang syn.

An thers a han, my trustee feer!
an gees a han o thyn!
And we’ll tak a richt gude-willie-waucht,
fir ald lang syn.