When Johnnie heard his Bessie's word, fast to the door he ran;
Is that you, Bessukie?—Wow na, man!
Be kind to the bairns a', and weel mat ye be;
And fareweel, Johnnie, quo' she, this is nae me!
This is nae me, &c.
John ran to the minister, his hair stood a' on end,
I've gotten sic a fright, Sir, I fear I'll never mend;
My wife's come hame without a head, crying out most piteously,
Oh fareweel, Johnnie, quo' she, this is nae me!
This is nae me, &c.
The tale you tell, the parson said, is wonderful to me,
How that a wife without a head could speak, or hear, or see!
But things that happen hereabout, so strangely alter'd be,
That I could maist wi' Bessie say, 'tis neither you nor she.
Neither you nor she, quo' he, neither you nor she,
Now na, Johnnie man, 'tis neither you nor she.
Now Johnnie he cam' hame again, and oh! but he was fain,
To see his little Bessukie come to hersel' again.
He got her sitting on a stool, wi' Tibbuck on her knee:
Oh! come awa', Johnnie, quo' she, come awa' to me,
For I've got a nap Tibbuckie, and this is now me.
This is now me, quo' she, this is now me,
I've got a nap wi' Tibbuckie, and this is now me.
Contented wi' little.
[Written by Burns to the tune of "Lumps o" Pudding."]
Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair,
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care,
I gi'e 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 sodger, 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 southers it a':
When at the blythe end o' 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!"
