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Robert Tannahill

                                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 labger are seen,
                                For winter is here wi' its cauld icy coat,
                                But we're a' met thegither owre a weee drappie o't.
                                Job in his lamentations said a man was made to mourn,
                                There's nae such thing as pleasure from the cradle to the the urn.
                                But in his meditations he surely had forgot
                                The pleasure man enjoys owre a wee drappie o't.
Footnote : Another song from the cotton-weaver bard of Paisley, Robert Tannahill ( 1774-1810 ). Although his work led to growing fame, Robert Tannahill commited suicide in the Paisley Canal at the age of 35, probably due to depression.


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