He.  As songsters of the early year,
     Are ilka day mair sweet to hear,
     So ilka day to me mair dear
     And charming is my Philly.

          She.  As on the brier the budding rose,
     Still richer breathes and fairer blows,
     So in my tender bosom grows
     The love I bear my Willy.

          Both.  For a’ the joys, &c.

          He.  The milder sun and bluer sky
     That crown my harvest cares wi’ joy,
     Were ne’er sae welcome to my eye
     As is a sight o’ Philly.

          She.  The little swallow’s wanton wing,
     Tho’ wafting o’er the flowery Spring,
     Did ne’er to me sic tidings bring,
     As meeting o’ my Willy. 
     Both.  For a’ the joys, &c.

          He.  The bee that thro’ the sunny hour
     Sips nectar in the op’ning flower,
     Compar’d wi’ my delight is poor,
     Upon the lips o’ Philly.

          She.  The woodbine in the dewy weet,
     When ev’ning shades in silence meet,
     Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet
     As is a kiss o’ Willy.

          Both.  For a’ the joys, &c.

          He.  Let fortune’s wheel at random rin,
     And fools may tine and knaves may win;
     My thoughts are a’ bound up in ane,
     And that’s my ain dear Philly.

          She.  What’s a’ the joys that gowd can gie? 
     I dinna care a single flie;
     The lad I love’s the lad for me,
     And that’s my ain dear Willy.

          Both.  For a’ the joys, &c.

Contented Wi’ Little And Cantie Wi’ Mair

     Tune—­“Lumps o’ Puddin’.”

     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. 
     Chorus—­Contented wi’ little, &c.

     I whiles claw the elbow o’ troublesome thought;
     But Man is a soger, and Life is a faught;
     My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch,
     And my Freedom’s my Lairdship nae monarch dare touch. 
     Contented wi’ little, &c.

     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? 
     Contented wi’ little, &c.

     Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way;
     Be’t to me, be’t frae me, e’en let the jade gae: 
     Come Ease, or come Travail, come Pleasure or Pain,
     My warst word is:  “Welcome, and welcome again!”
     Contented wi’ little, &c.

Farewell Thou Stream

     Air—­“Nansie’s to the greenwood gane.”