John Anderson my Jo/John Anderson, My Jo

by Robert Burns (1759-1796)

For other versions of this work, see John Anderson My Jo.

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.

John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
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 not 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 bairn’s bairns,
And yet, my dear John Anderson,
(illegible text)happy in your arms;

And sae are ye in mine, John,
I’m sure ye’ll ne’er say no,
Though the days are gane that we have seen,
John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,
What pleasure does it gie,
To see so many sprouts, John,
Spring up ’tween you and me;
And ilka lad and lass, John,
In our footsteps to go,
Make perfect heaven here on earth,
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 na 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 many a cantie day, John,
We’ve had with 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.