The Book of Scottish Song/Contented wi' little

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!"

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