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Ye'll blear out a' your e'en, John, And why should ye do so? Gang sooner to your bed at e’en, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, When Nature first began To try her canny hand, John, Her master-work was man; And you amang them a', John, So trig frae top to toe, She prov'd to be nae journey work, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, Ye were my first conceit, I think nae shame to own, John, I lo'ed you ear and late: They say ye're turning auld, John, And what though it be so? Ye're ay the same kind man 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, I'm sure ye'll ne'er say no,