Ye’ll blear out all your e’en, John, and why should you do so
Gang sooner to your bed at e’en, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first began
To try her canny hand, John, her master-work was man;
And you amang them a’, John, sae trig frae tap to toe,
She proved to be nae journey-work, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my first conceit,
And ye need na think it strange, John, tho’ I ca’ ye trim and neat.
Tho’ some folk say ye’re auld, John, I never think ye so,
But I think ye’re aye the same to me, John Anderson, my jo.