Robert Burns (1759–1796)

JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John,

When we were first acquent,

Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonnie brow was brent;

But now your brow is beld, John,

Your locks are like the snaw;

But blessings on your frosty pow,

John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither;

And mony a canty day, John,

We’ve had wi’ ane anither:

Now we maun totter down, John;

But hand in hand we’ll go,

And sleep thegither at the foot,

John Anderson, my jo.