*" MY LORD "*

By Charles Murray

Nakit tho’ we're born an’ equal,

Lucky anes are made Police;

An’ if civil life's the sequel,

Honours but wi’ age increase,

Till a Baillie, syne selected

Ruler ower the Council Board,

An’ tho’ never re-elected,

“Ance a Provost, aye‘ My Lord.’”

Credit's got by advertisin’

Ye hae siller still to lend;

Get the word o’ early risin’,

Ye can sleep a week on end.

Gie a man a name for fightin’ —

Never need he wear a sword;

Men will flee afore his flytin’ —

“Ance a Provost, aye‘ My Lord.’”

But for mischief name a body,

He can never win aboon‘ t,

Folk wad swear he chate the wuddy

In the lint-pot gin he droo n't;

For unless ye start wi’ thrivin’,

A’ your virtues are ignored,

Vain a’ future toil an’ strivin’ —

“Ance a Provost, aye‘ My Lord.’”