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:

   e ease, ore travail,e pleasure or pain,

  my warst word is: “wee, and wee again!”

  contented wi' little, &c.