“Auld Lang Syne” Does Not Mean “The Good Old Days”

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind?

(Should old friends be forgotten

and never remembered?)

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And auld lang syne?

(Should old relationships be forgotten,

and the time we shared long ago?)

For auld lang syne, my jo,

For auld lang syne,

(For the sake of old times, my dear,

for the sake of what has been,)

We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

(we’ll still share a drink of goodwill

for the sake of old times.)

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp!

And surely I’ll be mine!

(You’ll pay for your drink,

and I’ll pay for mine.)

And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

(And we’ll still share that drink of kindness

for the sake of what we’ve shared.)

We twa hae run about the braes,

And pou’d the gowans fine;

(The two of us ran through the hills

and picked daisies together,)

But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,

Sin’ auld lang syne.

(but we’ve walked many tired miles

since those days long ago.)

We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,

Frae morning sun till dine;

(We waded together in the stream

from morning until midday,)

But seas between us braid hae roar’d

Sin’ auld lang syne.

(but wide, roaring seas have come between us

since those old times.)

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere!

And gie’s a hand o’ thine!

(So here is my hand, my trusted friend—

give me yours in return.)

And we’ll tak a right gude-willie waught,

For auld lang syne.

(And we’ll take a deep drink of goodwill

for the sake of what has been.)

The phrase auld lang syne is usually translated as “long ago” or “old times,” but that’s a flattening. In Scots, it carries weight closer to for the sake of what has been. It is not nostalgia for comfort. It is a remembrance with the depth of responsibility.

When Robert Burns collected and adapted the song in the late 18th century, he was drawing on older oral verses that already existed in fragments across Scotland. Burns did not invent the sentiment. But we can thank him for preserving it.

The opening question, Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?, is not rhetorical in the way we hear it now. It is a genuine moral question.

Should we forget the people we once loved?

The promises we made?

The versions of ourselves that got us here?

The song’s answer is not “no, because it was nice.”

The answer is no because forgetting would be a kind of betrayal.

A Song About Continuity, Not Reinvention

What strikes me most, especially now, is how incompatible this song is with our modern New Year culture.

There are no resolutions in Auld Lang Syne.

No declarations of self-improvement.

No insistence that the past be overcome or erased.

Instead, the song insists on continuity.

We remember shared cups. Shared labor. Shared hardship. Friendship tested by time, distance, and change. The past is not something to escape. It is something we are obligated to carry forward with intention.

This makes sense in a Scottish context shaped by displacement, migration, and loss. The song traveled because the people experienced the loss of past ecosystems of friendship, life, and love. It became a global New Year ritual not because it promised renewal, but because it acknowledged the reality of separation and survival.

Why We Sing It at New Year

Historically, New Year in Scotland (Hogmanay) was not about personal transformation. It was about communal accounting. Who made it through the winter. Who didn’t. Who was welcomed at the threshold. Who was owed hospitality, forgiveness, or remembrance.

Auld Lang Syne belongs to that world.

It is a threshold song, but not a forward-looking one. It stands at the crossing and looks both ways. It asks us to pause, not to erase. To honor what has been carried, not to rid ourselves of it.

That’s why it feels uncomfortably heavy when sung earnestly.

It isn’t meant to be light.

A Hearth Keeper's Reflection

I think we’ve misunderstood this song because we’ve misunderstood the New Year itself.

We treat January as a rupture and a moment where the past is supposed to loosen its grip. Auld Lang Syne refuses that fantasy. It insists that we bring our dead, our distances, our shared cups, and our unfinished stories with us across the threshold.

At the hearth, this is what integration feels like.

The hearth is not a place where things abruptly begin fresh. It is where things are tended and blended over time. Embers are carried forward, not extinguished. Stories are told again because they matter, not because they are easy.

So when I hear Auld Lang Syne now, I don’t hear a song about the past being over.

I hear a song asking whether I will remember properly.

And that feels like a far more honest way to enter a new year than pretending I arrive alone.

Sources and further reading

Burns, Robert. Auld Lang Syne (1788). National Library of Scotland.

Dictionary of the Scots Language (DSL). Definitions and usage of auld lang syne.

National Trust for Scotland. “Auld Lang Syne: Origins and Meaning.”

Hutton, Ronald. The Stations of the Sun: A History of the Ritual Year in Britain. Oxford University Press.

van Gennep, Arnold. The Rites of Passage. University of Chicago Press.