493. Song—Contented wi’ little, and cantie wi’ mair by Robert Burns
CONTENTED wi’ little, and cantie wi’ mair, Whene’er I forgather wi’ Sorrow and Care, I gie them a skelp as they’re creeping alang, Wi’ a cog o’ gude swats and an auld Scottish sang. Chorus.—Contented wi’ little, &c.
I whiles 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. Contented wi’ little, &c.
A townmond o’ trouble, should that be may fa’, A night o’ gude fellowship sowthers it a’: When at the blythe end o’ our journey at last, Wha the deil ever thinks o’ the road he has past? Contented wi’ little, &c.
Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way; Be’t to me, be’t frae me, e’en let the jade gae: Come Ease, or come Travail, come Pleasure or Pain, My warst word is: “Welcome, and welcome again!” Contented wi’ little, &c.