CCXXXVI. Contented Wi’ Little

Tune—“Lumps o’ Pudding.”

[Burns was an admirer of many songs which the more critical and fastidious regarded as rude and homely. “Todlin Hame” he called an unequalled composition for wit and humour, and “Andro wi’ his cutty Gun,” the work of a master. In the same letter, where he records these sentiments, he writes his own inimitable song, “Contented wi’ Little.”]

I.

Contented wi’ little, and cantie wi’ mair,
Whene’er I forgather wi’ sorrow end 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 sodger, and life is a faught:
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch,
And my freedom’s my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.

III.

A towmond o’ trouble, should that be my fa’,
A night o’ guid fellowship sowthers it a’:
When at the blithe 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!”