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.