This life is a journey we a' hae to gang,|
And care is the burden we carry alang,
Though heavy be oor burden and poverty oor lot,
We'll be happy a' thegither owre a wee drappie o't.
Owre a wee drappie o't,
owre a wee drappie o't,
We'll be happy a' thegither
Owre a wee drappie o't.
The trees are a' stripped o' their mantles sae green,
The leaves o' the forest nae langer are seen,
For winter is here wi' its cauld icy coat,
But we're a' met thegither owre a wee drappie o't.
Job in his lamentations said man was made to mourn,
There's nae such thing as pleasure from the cradle to the urn.
But in his meditations he surely had forgot
The pleasure man enjoys owre a wee drappie o't.
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