Robert Burns Poems

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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.

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