MISCELLANEOUS TOASTS AND SENTIMENTS
Reading edition
A chiel’s amang ye takin’ notes and, faith, he’ll prent it!
A garland for the hero’s crest And twined by her whom he loves best.
And here’s to a’ wha drink this night, And here’s to them that’s far awa’, And muckle joy and pure delight.
And so suppose now, while the things go away, By way of a grace we all stand up and say How pleasant it is to have money, heigh ho, How pleasant it is to have money!
And there in soul sunshine, shall bloom evermore The mem’ry of Burns, the bard of the Poor.
Auld Lang Syne.
Barley rigs; may we experience a few of Burns’ happy nights among them.
Dinna’ forget.
God loves man when he refrains from sin, The De’il loves man when he persists therein, The world loves man, when riches on him flow, And you’d love me could I pay what I owe.
Gude nicht, and joy be wi’ you a’. Gude Nicht.
Health to the man, death to the fish, and good growth to all in the ground.
Here’s to him that has the right And yet received the wrang, Has five shillings in his pouch And yet he wants a crown.
Here’s to him that’s out And no to him that pits him out, And de’il turn all their insides out That doesna drink this toast about.
Happy’s the man that belongs to nae party But sits in his ain house and looks at Benarty.
Here’s health to the sick, stilts to the lame, claise to the back and brose to the wame.
Here’s health, wealth, wit and meal.
Here’s to a’ your fouk an’ a’ our fouk, an’ a’ the fouk that’s been kind to your fouk an’ our fouk; an’ if a’ fouk had aye been as kind to fouk as your fouk’s been to our fouk, there wad aye hae been guid fouk i’ the warld sin fouks bin fouks.
Here’s to horn, corn, wool and yarn.
In politics if thou would’st mix, And mean thy fortunes be; Bear this in mind, be deaf and blind, Let great folks hear and see.
Mair sense and mair siller.
May every Scotchman be fed with crowdy-mowdy, lang-kail, and ranty-tanty.
May liberty meet wi’ success! May prudence protect her frae evil! May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist And wander their way to the devil.
May poortith never throw us in the dirt, or gowd into the high saddle.
May the mouse ne’er leave our meal pock with the tear in his ee.
May the winds o’ adversity never blaw open our door.
May want, discontent and turbulence cease, May men live thegither in concord and peace, May Scotland aye yield a rich crop an’ fleece To keep our hands full wi’ the spinnin’ o’t.
Nae treasures, nor pleasures, Could mak’ us happy lang; The heart aye’s the part aye, That mak’s us right or wrang.
Of all the arts beneath the heaven That man has found or God has given, None draws the soul so sweet away As Music’s melting mystic lay.
O’ a’ roads to pleasure that ever were tried There’s nane half so sure as our ain fireside.
O wad some pow’r the giftie gie us, To see oursels as others see us! It wad frae mony a blunder free us.
Success for aye to the guid auld game, To the grand old game of the gowff.
To horny hands and weather-beaten haffets (cheeks).
To the rending o’ rocks and the pu’in’ doun o’ auld houses.
The anniversary of St. Andrew’s Day and all its convivial meetings.
The Duke of Argyll and the Campbell clan.
Let the waiter bring clean glasses, With a fresh supply of wine— For I see by all your faces, In my wishes you will join. It is not the charms of beauty, Which I purpose to explain, We awhile will leave that duty, For a more prevailing theme. To the health I’m now proposing, Let’s have one full glass at least, No one here can think’t imposing— ’Tis—“The Founder of the Feast!”
The Highland fling: may it ever cast care away.
The nobles of Caledonia and their ladies.
The poet of chivalry, Sir Walter Scott.
The Scotch bagpipe but not the Scotch fiddle.
The Scotch Greys: that made the Eagles look black.
The Scotchman’s proverb: Get a good price but give good measure.
The three great generals—General Peace, General Plenty and General Satisfaction.
Then dormy hame we can sing through the round And die like golfers keen. We’ve played fu’ well the short game and lang, The game on the golfing green.
Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Tho’ they may gang a kennin wrang, To step aside is human, Then at the balance let’s be mute, We never can adjust it; What’s done we partly may compute, But know not what’s resisted.
“To each and all a fair good night, And pleasing dreams and slumbers bright.”
To Edinburgh—the penniless lass wi’ the lang pedigree.
To Burns
Touched by his hand, the wayside weed Becomes a flower; the lowest reed Beside the stream Is clothed with beauty; gorse and grass And heather, where his footsteps pass The brighter seem.
To Burns
For now he haunts his native land As an immortal youth; his hand Guides every plough: He sits beside each ingle-nook; His voice is in each rushing brook Each rustling bough.
To the memory of Sir Ralph Abercromby, and may the laurels which Scotland gained when he fell bloom to the latest ages untarnished by any of her future warriors.
To the memory of Robert Bruce.
To the Shakespeare of novelists, Sir Walter Scott.
Up wi’ my ploughman, lad, And hey my merry ploughman, Of a’ the trades that I do ken Commend me to the ploughman.
When driving ceases, may we still be able To play the shorts, putt and be comfortable.
Yonder’s the moon, I ken her horn, She’s blinkin’ in the lift sae hie; She shines fu’ bright to wyle us hame, But by my sooth she’ll wait a wee!