Your locks were like the raven, John, your bonnie brow was brent;
But now ye’re getting auld, John, your locks are like the snow;
Yet blessing on that 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 not that affright us, John; our hearts were ne’er our foe;
Tho’ the days are gane that we have seen, John Anderson, my Jo.
John Anderson, my Jo, John, we’ve clamb’d 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,