Robert Burns, eh?
Contented Wi' Little and Cantie Wi' Mair
Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair,
Whene'er I foregather 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.
I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome Thought;
But man is a sodger, and life is a faught:
My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch,
And my Freedom's my lairdship nae monarch daur touch.
A towmond o' trouble, should that be my 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!
Blind Chance, le