Song. Wha Does This Bonnet Fit?

A WICKED Scotchman now resides, Just by the treasury; He steals and cheats from morn to night, No chief more glad than he.

This is the burthen of his song, Where-ever he may be; I care for nobody right or wrong, And nobody cares for me,

His fingers had the dreadful itch, Which made him cross the Tweed, To find a cure among the rich, And having made great speed, This is the burthen, &c.

His conscience made of temper'd steel, His face of solid brass; Remorse nor shame he ne'er did feel, Since he in office was. This is the burthen, &c.

Yet one sad thought his bosom heaves, And yields a smarting pain, That, should the state be purg'd from Thieves, He loses all again!

Still this the burthen of his song, Where-ever he may be; I care for nobody, right or wrong, And nobody cares for me.