Robert Burns

“Contented wi’ Little…”

Contended wi’ little, and cantie wi’ mair,
Whene’er I forgather wi’ sorrow and care,
I gie them a skelp, as they’re creepin’ alang,
Wi’ a cog o’ gude swats, and an auld Scottish sang.

I whyles claw the elbow o’ troublesome thought;
But man is a soger, and life is a faught:
My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch,
And my freedom’s my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.

A towmond o’ trouble, should that be my fa’,
A night o’ gude fellowship sowthers it a’;
When at the blythe end of our journey at last,
Wha the deli ever thinks o’ the road he has past?

Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way,
Be’t to me, be’t frae me, e’en let the jad gae:
Come ease or come travail, come pleasure or pain,
My warst word is – ’Welcome, and welcome again!’