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AIR—”John Anderson, my Jo.”

There is a country gentleman,
   Who leads a thrifty life,
Ilk morning scraping orra things
   Thegither for his wife—
His coat o’ glowing ruddy brown,
   And wavelet wi
’ gold—
A crimson crown upon his head
   Well-fitting one so bold.

If ithers pick where he did scrape,
   He brings them to disgrace,
For, like a man o
’ metal, he
   Siclike meets face to face;
He gies the loons a lethering,
   A crackit croon to claw
There is nae gaun about the bush
   Wi Cockie-leerie la!

His step is firm and evenly,
   His look both sage and grave
His bearing bold, as if he said,
”I'll never be a slave!”
And tho
’ he hauds his head fu’ high,
   He glinteth to the grun,
Nor fyles his silver spurs in dubs
’ glowerin’ at the sun:

And whiles I’ve thocht had he a hand
’ to grip a stickie,
A pair o
’ specks across his neb,
   And round his neck a dickie,
That weans wad laughing haud their sides,
   And cry,
”Preserve us a’!
’re some frien’ to Doctor Drawbluid,
   Douce Cockie-leerie-la!

So learn frae him to think nae shame
   To work for what ye need,
For he that gapes till he be fed,
   May gape till he be dead;
And if ye live in idleness,
’ll find unto your cost,
That they wha winna work in heat,
   Maun hunger in the frost.

And hain wi’ care ilk sair-won plack,
   And honest pride will fill 
Your purse wi’ gear—ee’n far-oft frien’s
   Will bring grist to your mill;
And if, when grown to be a man,
   Your name’s without a flaw,
Then rax your neck, and tune your pipes
   To Cockie—leerie-la!

Jun 2, 2007

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