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,
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