Poems by Robert Nicoll Second edition: with numerous additions, and a memoir of the author |
 | I. |
THE BAILIE. |
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| III. |
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 | Poems by Robert Nicoll |  |
THE BAILIE.
Down the street the Bailie comes—
Faith he keeps the causey-crown,
He bans the sergeants black and blue,
The bellman gets the name o' loun.
He can speak in monie tongues,
Gude braid Scots and hieland Erse;
The king o' Bailies is our ain,
Sic men I fear are unco scarce!
Faith he keeps the causey-crown,
He bans the sergeants black and blue,
The bellman gets the name o' loun.
He can speak in monie tongues,
Gude braid Scots and hieland Erse;
The king o' Bailies is our ain,
Sic men I fear are unco scarce!
At feasting-time the powers aboon
At cramming try their utmost skill;
But faith the Bailie dings them a'
At spice and wine, or whisky gill.
The honest man can sit and drink,
And never ha'e his purse to draw;
He helps to rule this sinfu' town,
And as it should—it pays for a'.
At cramming try their utmost skill;
But faith the Bailie dings them a'
At spice and wine, or whisky gill.
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And never ha'e his purse to draw;
He helps to rule this sinfu' town,
And as it should—it pays for a'.
And then to see him in the kirk,
Wi' gowden chain about his neck!
He's like a king upon a throne—
I say it wi' a' meet respect.
And to the folk who fill the lafts,
Fu' monie a fearsome look he gi'es,
To see that a' are duly filled
Wi' terror of the dignities!
Wi' gowden chain about his neck!
He's like a king upon a throne—
I say it wi' a' meet respect.
And to the folk who fill the lafts,
Fu' monie a fearsome look he gi'es,
To see that a' are duly filled
Wi' terror of the dignities!
A pickle here—a pickle there,
Of borough siller Bailie gets,
And he would need—it's no a joke,
To fitly fill a Bailie's seat!
The Bailie likes the gude auld ways,
And yet he langs for something new;
He thinks twal corporation feasts
Within the year are unco few!
Of borough siller Bailie gets,
And he would need—it's no a joke,
To fitly fill a Bailie's seat!
The Bailie likes the gude auld ways,
And yet he langs for something new;
He thinks twal corporation feasts
Within the year are unco few!
| Poems by Robert Nicoll | |