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122 BARBARA HANTMAN Burns Festschrift Amang the brachens, on the brae, Between her an’ the moon, O my Luve’s like a red, red rose, That’s newly sprung in June. To adore thee is my duty, Goddess o’ this soul o’ mine! Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides. There’s wild-woods grow, and rivers row, What signifies the life o’ man, An’ ‘twere na for the lasses, O. Naething could resist my Nancy: I kiss’d her owre and owre again, Amang the rigs o’ barley. The best-laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men Gang aft a-gley, And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet, For auld lang syne. ...

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