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 bony brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
	Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
	John Anderson my Jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,
	We clamb the hill the gither;
And mony a canty day, John,
	We’ve had wi’ ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
	And hand in hand we’ll go;
And sleep the gither at the foot,
	John Anderson my Jo.
Robert Burns
Robert Burns

If ever a poet understood the character of his nation, he was Robert Burns. The language he was most fluent in wasn’t so much Scots or English – it was the language of the heart. All too human in his personal life, he carried that humanity over onto the page. Nothing was too small or too large to escape his notice, from a mouse in the mud to God in his heavens. A poet for all seasons, Burns speaks to all, soul to soul.

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