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 Scotish 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 deil 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 jade gae:
Come Ease, or come Travail; come Pleasure, or Pain;
My warst word is - `Welcome and welcome again!'