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.