The Book of Scottish Song/The Old Man's Song

2262917The Book of Scottish Song — The Old Man's Song1843John Skinner

The Old Man's Song.

[Written by the Rev. John Skinner to the tune of "Dumbarton's Drums." The picture here drawn of contented old age was one realized in the venerable author's own life.]

O! why should old age so much wound us, O?
There is nothing in't all to confound us, O;
For how happy now am I,
With my old wife sitting by,
And our bairns and our oyes all around us, O.
We began in the world wi' naething, O,
And we've jogged on and toiled for the ae thing, O;
We made use of what we had,
And our thankfu' hearts were glad,
When we got the bit meat and the claithing, O.

We have lived all our lifetime contented, O,
Since the day we became first acquainted, O;
It's true we've been but poor,
And we are so to this hour,
Yet we never pined nor lamented, O.
We ne'er thought o' schemes to be wealthy, O,
By ways that were cunning or stealthie, O;
But we always had the bliss—
And what farther could we wiss?—
To be pleased wi' ourselves and be healthy, O.

What though we canna boast of our guineas, O,
We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies, O;
And these, I'm certain, are
More desirable by far,
Than a pock full of poor yellow steenies, O.
We have seen many a wonder and ferlie, O,
Of changes that almost are yearlie, O,
Among rich folks up and down,
Both in country and in town,
Who now live but scrimply and barely, O.

Then why should people brag of prosperity, O?
A straitened life, we see, is no rarity, O;
Indeed, we've been in want,
And our living been but scant,
Yet we never were reduced to need charity, O.
In this house we first came together, O,
Where we've long been a father and mother, O;
And though not of stone and lime,
It will last us a' our time;
And I hope we shall never need anither, O.

And when we leave this habitation, O,
We'll depart with a good commendation, O;
We'll go hand in hand, I wiss,
To a better house than this,
To make room for the next generation, O.
Then why should old age so much wound us, O?
There is nothing in't all to confound us, O?
For how happy now am I,
With my auld wile sitting by,
And our bairns and our oyes all around us, O!