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
Wi' glowerin' at the sun:

And whiles I've thocht had he a hand
Wharwi' 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'!
Ye'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,
Ye'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!