THE

ELECTION.

Nunc est bibendum, et bendere Bickerum magnum; Cavete Town-Guardum, Dl Gddm ataque C-pb-m.

REJOICE, ye Burghers ! ́ane and a';
Lang look't for's come at last :

Sair were your backs held to the wa',
Wi' poortith and wi' fast.

Now ye may clap your wings and craw,

And gayly busk ilk feather,

For deacon cocks hae pass'd a law,

To rax and weet your leather

Wi' drink thir days.

Haste, Epps! quo* John, and bring my giz;

Tak tent ye dinna't spulzie:

Last night the barber gae't a friz,

And straikit it wi' ulzie.

THE ELECTION.

Hae done your parritch, lassie Liz!
Gie me my sark and gravat;

I'se be as braw's the deacon is,

Whan he taks affidavit

O' faith the day.

"Whare's Johnny gaun (cries neebour Bess), "That he's sae gayly bodin,

"Wi' new-kam'd wig, weel syndet face,

"Silk hose, for hamely hodin?"

Our Johnny's nae sma drink, you'll guess;

'He's trig as ony muircock,

And forth to mak a deacon, lass;

'He downa speak to poor fouk

Like us the day.'

The coat, ben-by i' the kist-nook,

That's been this towmonth swarmin,

Is brought aince mair thereout to look,
To fleg awa the vermin.

THE ELECTION.

Menzies o' moths and flaes are shook,
And i' the floor they howder,

Till, in a birn, beneath the crook,
They're singit wi' a scowder

To death that day.

The canty cobler quats his sta',
His roset and his lingans ;

His buik has dree'd a sair, sair fa',
Frae meals o' bread and ingans.

Now he's a pow o' wit and law,
And taunts at soles and heels;

To Walker's he can rin awa,

There whang his creams and jeels
Wi' life that day.

The lads, in order tak their seat;
(The deil may claw the clungest!)

They stech and connach sae the meat,
Their teeth mak mair than tongue haste.

THE ELECTION.

Their claes sae cleanly tight and feat,
And eke their craw-black beavers,

Like masters mows hac fund the gate
To tassels teugh wi slavers

Fu' lang that day.

The dinner done,-for brandy strang
They cry, to weet their thrapple;

Το

gar the stamack bide the bang,

Nor wi' its ladin grapple.

The grace is said ;—it's nae owre lang:

The claret reams in bells ;

Quo' Deacon," Let the toast round gang:

"Come, Here's our Noble Sels

"Weel met the day!"

Weels me o' drink, quo cooper Will,

My barrel has been geyz'd ay,

And has na gotten sic a fill,

Sin fou on Hansel-Teysday: