contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair
tune—“lumps o' puddin'.”
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.