 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
234
CONTENTED WI' LITTLE
I
Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair,Whene'er I forgather wi' Sorrow and Care,
I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang,
Wi' a cog o' guid swats and an auld Scottish sang.
II
I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome Thought;But Man is a soger, and Life is a faught.
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch,
And my Freedom's my lairdship nae monarch daur touch.
III
A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa',A night o' guid 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?
IV
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!’
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |