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.