“My Lord”
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 droon’t;
For unless ye start wi’ thrivin’,
A’ your virtues are ignored,
Vain a’ future toil an’ strivin’—
“Ance a Provost, aye ‘My Lord.’”