Tho we hae little gear;

We’re fit to win our daily bread,

As lang’s we’re hale and fier:

‘Mair spier na, nor fear na,’

Auld age ne’er mind a feg;

The last o’t, the warst o’t,

Is only but to beg.

To lie in kilns and barns at e’en,

When banes are craz’d, and bluid is thin,

Is, doubtless, great distress!

Yet then content could make us blest;

Ev’n then, sometimes, we’d snatch a taste

Of truest happiness.

The honest heart that’s free frae a’

Intended fraud or guile,

However Fortune kick the ba’,

Has ay some cause to smile;

And mind still, you’ll find still,

A comfort this nae sma;

Nae mair then, we’ll care then,

Nae farther we can fa’.

What tho, like commoners of air,

We wander out, we know not where,

But either house or hal?

Yet Nature’s charms, the hills and woods,

The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,

Are free alike to all.

In days when daisies deck the ground,

And blackbirds whistle clear,

With honest joy our hearts will bound,

To see the coming year:

On braes when we please then,

We’ll sit an sowth a tune;

Syne rhyme till’t, we’ll time till’t,

An sing’t when we hae done.

It’s no in titles nor in rank:

It’s no in wealth like Lon’on Bank,

To purchase peace and rest,

It’s no in makin muckle, mair;

It’s no in books, it’s no in lear,

To make us truly blest:

If happiness hae not her seat

An centre in the breast,

We may be wise, or rich, or great,

But never can be blest!

Nae treasures nor pleasures

Could make us happy lang;

The heart ay’s the part ay

That makes us right or wrang.

Think ye, that sic as you and I,

Wha drudge and drive thro wet and dry,

Wi never ceasing toil;

Think ye, are we less blest than they,

Wha scarcely tent us in their way,

As hardly worth their while?

Alas! how oft in haughty mood,

God’s creatures they oppress!

Or else, neglecting a’ that’s guid,

They riot in excess!

Baith careless and fearless

Of either Heaven or Hell;

Esteeming and deeming

It’ sa’ an idle tale!

Then let us cheerfu acquiesce,

Nor make our scanty pleasures less

By pining at our state:

And, even should misfortunes come

I here wha sit, hae met wi some,

An’s thankfu for them yet,

They gie the wit of age to youth;

They let us ken oursel;

They make us see the naked truth,

The real guid and ill:

Tho losses and crosses

Be lessons right severe,

There’s wit there, ye’ll get there,

Ye’ll find nae other where.

But tent me, Davie, ace o hearts!

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes,

And flatt’ry I detest)

This life has joys for you and I;

And joys that riches ne’er could buy,

And joys the very best.

There’sa’ the pleasures o the heart,

The lover an the frien:

Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part,