Classic Poem

N AKIT 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. " "