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.