Robert Burns, 1794
Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair,
Whene'er I forgather wi' Sorrow and Care,
I gie them a skelp as they're creeping alang,
Wi' a cog o' gude swats and an auld Scottish sang.
I whiles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought;
2. A townmond o' trouble, should that be may 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?
3. Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way;
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