But now your head’s turned bald, John, your locks are like the snaw,
Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to year we’ve past,
And soon that year maun come, John, will bring us to our last;
But let nae that affright us, John, our hearts were ne’er our foe,
While in innocent delight we lived, 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 we’ll sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo.