The fire burns brisk for the frost is keen
And the auld year 's happin' awa.
There 's snaw on the hills and snaw on the green
And bairns gie their fingers a blaw.

The auld year gangs wi' his wearifu' pack —
Twa fauld wi' trouble he 's bent;
But a-body 's gled at the sicht o' his back —
May the like o' 'im never be kent!