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Setup your beaver, now you're fit
To be a Legislator.

And with the wind in all your sails,

Your star in the ascendant, The next thing you must do, is cram

The free and independent;
Play your election cards aright,

By bribery and lying,
And into Parliament you go,

With all your colors flying.

And now you take your rightful place,

Among the sons of Mammon, The full grown representatives

Of humbug and of gammon; Your genius now can show itself,

You're in your proper station, By plucking pigeons you have learned

The way to pluck the nation.

Get some fat office, for you know
Man cannot live by suction,

And then retire to your nest,
And fatten on corruption;

Then you may sit and take your ease,
Nor be by care affected,

A good old gray-haired patriarch,
By all the world respected.

At last when in the grave you're laid,

The green turf growing o'er you, Your epitaph will be a lie,

As big as e'er you swore to: "A Legislator slumbers here,

Whose heart was all affection, He served mankind, and died in hope,

Of a joyful resurrection."



Here Hugh has laid him down to sleep,

His sorrows all are o'er;
And want, the Devil, and the dun,

Can trouble him no more.
Had earth remained a paradise,

Nane would enjoyed it better; But he was ne'er meant for a world,

Of creditor and debtor.

He had a wee faut o' his ain,

Or maybe he had twa;
To rake them frae his ashes noo,

Would do nae good ava.
We own he wasna worldly wise,

"A bee was in his bonnet;" But yet he had a heart for a',

Wi' ne'er a flaw upon it.

So we'll not summon up his ghost,

His wee bit fauti to tell;
Especially as nae ane kent

Them better than himself.
To curb his human frailties, few

More manfully have striven;
80 with them we have nought to do,

For maybe they're forgiven.

How happy would the world have been,

Could he have made it so; There would have been no heavy hearts,

Nor any tears of woe;
Want would have been a thing unknown,

The lads would a' had lasses;
And mirth have played the fiddle, aye

Amang her social glasses.

He loved peace above everything,

And often bought it dear;
And want had aye his helping hand,

And sorrow had his tear.
To wrang a body or a beast,

It wasna in his nature;

And said it gaed against the grain,
To hate a human creature.

Yet often when his wrath was roused,

By cruelty or pride, The burning words that fell frae him,

Were very sair to bide; And how he lashed the tittlin' tribe,

Wha deal in spitefu' havers; And so they splattered owre his name,

Wi' wicked clishmaclavers.

Some say his love o' charity,

Had grown to a disease,
But that's a weakness now a days,

That ane owre seldom sees.
And weel I wat! they needna fear,

A general infection;
For in their cauld-rife hearts they bear

A certain sure protection.

He had his enemies,—a fact
They often made him feel;

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