*"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.'"