John Anderson, My Jo, John.
John Anderson, my Jo, John, when nature first began,
To try her canny hand, John, her master-work was man;
And ye amang them a’, John, sae trig frae top to toe,
She proved to be na’ 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;
There’s some folks say ye’re old, John, but I ne’er think you so,
For ye are a’ the same to me, John Anderson, my Jo.
John Anderson, my Jo, John, when we were first acquent,