Set up your beaver, now you're fit And with the wind in all your sails, The next thing you must do, is cram By bribery and lying, And into Parliament you go, 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 And then retire to your nest, And fatten on corruption; Then you may sit and take your ease, A good old gray-haired patriarch, 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." EPITAPH. 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, He had a wee faut o' his ain, 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. وو So we'll not summon up his ghost, His wee bit fauts to tell; Especially as nae ane kent Them better than himsel. To curb his human frailties, few 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, And mirth have played the fiddle, aye He loved peace above everything, And often bought it dear; And want had aye his helping hand, To wrang a body or a beast, And sair it gaed against the grain, 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, 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; T |