Classic Poem

PART I.

Should old acquaintance be forgot,
And never thought upon,
The flames of love extinguished,
And freely past and gone?
Is thy kind heart now grown so cold
In that loving breast of thine,
That thou canst never once reflect
On old long-syne?

Where are thy protestations,
Thy vows and oaths, my dear,
Thou made to me, and I to thee,
In register yet clear?
Is faith and truth so violate
To th' immortal gods divine,
That thou canst never once reflect
On old long-syne?

Is't Cupid's fears, or frosty cares,
That make thy sp'rits decay?
Or is't some object of more worth,
That's sto'en thy heart away?
Or some desert makes thee neglect
Him, so much once was thine,
That thou canst never once reflect
On old long-syne?

Is worldly care so desperate,
That makes thee to despair?
Is't that makes thee exasperate,
And makes thee to forbear?
If thou of that were free as I,
Thou surely should be mine;
If this were true, we should renew
Kind old long-syne.

But since that nothing can prevail,
And all hope is in vain,
From these rejected eyes of mine,
Still showers of tears shall rain.
And tho' thou hast me now forgot,
Yet I'll continue thine,
And ne'er forget for to reflect
On old long-syne.

If e'er I have a house, my dear,
That truly is called mine;
And can afford but country cheer,
Or ought that's good therein;
Tho' thou were rebel to the king,
And beat with wind and rain,
Assure thyself of welcome, love,
For old long-syne.

PART II.

My soul is ravish'd with delight,
When thee I think upon;
All griefs and sorrows take the flight,
And hastily are gone;
The fair resemblance of thy face
So fills this breast of mine,
No fate or force can it displace,
For old long-syne.

Since thoughts of thee do banish grief,
When I'm from thee remov'd;
And if in them I find relief,
When with sad cares I'm moved,
How doth thy presence me affect,
With ecstasies divine,
Especially when I reflect
On old long-syne.

Since thou hast robbed me of my heart,
By those resistless pow'rs,
Which Madam Nature doth impart
To those fair eyes of yours;
With honour it doth not consist
To hold a slave in pyne;
Pray let your rigour then desist,
For old long-syne.

'Tis not my freedom I do crave,
By deprecating pains,
True liberty he would not have,
Who glories in his chains;
But this, I wish the gods would move,
That noble soul of thine
To pity, since thou canst not love,
For old long-syne.