Stray Leaves from the Portfolios of Alisander the Seer, Andrew Whaup, and Humphrey Henkeckle Edited by Alexander Rodger |
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THE EX-BAILIES' LAMENT. |
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 | Stray Leaves from the Portfolios of Alisander the Seer, Andrew Whaup, and Humphrey Henkeckle |  |
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THE EX-BAILIES' LAMENT.
Oh, the days are gone, when Office sweet,
Could fill our fob:
And from morn till night—our sole delight
Was job, still job!
Dark days have come,
Of grief and gloom,
Without one cheering gleam.
O, there's nothing left us now in life,
Of power's gay dream;
But our sun that shone so bright, has gone
Nor left one beam.
Could fill our fob:
And from morn till night—our sole delight
Was job, still job!
Dark days have come,
Of grief and gloom,
Without one cheering gleam.
O, there's nothing left us now in life,
Of power's gay dream;
But our sun that shone so bright, has gone
Nor left one beam.
Our cocked hats we now must doff,
And bright gold chains;
Our velvet robes of state throw off,
Nor touch job-gains,
And cast aside,
Official pride;
And even a Bailie's name:
For Whigs and Rads have now got in,
O grief and shame!
And civic power, alas, no more
Can we e'er claim.
And bright gold chains;
Our velvet robes of state throw off,
Nor touch job-gains,
And cast aside,
Official pride;
And even a Bailie's name:
For Whigs and Rads have now got in,
O grief and shame!
And civic power, alas, no more
Can we e'er claim.
Though the Whigs to surer fame may soar
Than ours, now past;
Though they've won the mob who frowned before,
To smile at last;
They'll never feel
So pure a zeal,
In all their blaze of fame—
As did we, when first to Pitt we knelt,
With hearts all flame;
And bowed our heads, and muttered o'er
His dear-loved name.
Than ours, now past;
Though they've won the mob who frowned before,
To smile at last;
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So pure a zeal,
In all their blaze of fame—
As did we, when first to Pitt we knelt,
With hearts all flame;
And bowed our heads, and muttered o'er
His dear-loved name.
O! his hallowed form we'll ne'er forget,
Which our Hall graced;
But we'll fondly muse upon it yet,
Though now displaced.
And though we lick
No more the stick
That stirred the Borough cream,
O we still will think on bygone days;—
And each night dream
Of mounting yet to power and place
By some sly scheme.
Which our Hall graced;
But we'll fondly muse upon it yet,
Though now displaced.
And though we lick
No more the stick
That stirred the Borough cream,
O we still will think on bygone days;—
And each night dream
Of mounting yet to power and place
By some sly scheme.
| Stray Leaves from the Portfolios of Alisander the Seer, Andrew Whaup, and Humphrey Henkeckle | |