6
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your head’s turned bald, John,
Your locks are like the snow,
Yet, blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
When nature first began
To try her cannie 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,
Though I ca’ ye trim and neat;
Though some folks say ye’re auld, John,
I never think you so,
But I think ye’re aye the same to me,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We’ve seen our bairns’ bairns,
And yet, my dear John Anderson,
I’m happy in your arms;
And sae are ye in mine John,
