THE ELECTION.

But maks na; now it's got a sweel;
Ae gird I shanna cast, lad!

Or, else, I wish the horned deil
May Will wi' kittle cast dad

To h-ll the day!!

The magistrates fu' wylie are;
Their lamps are gayly blinkin;

But they might as lieve burn elsewhere,
Whan fouk's blind-fou' wi' drinkin.

Our Deacon wadna ca' a chair;

The foul ane durst him na-say!

He took shanks-naig; but, fient may care;

He arslins kiss'd the cawsey

Wi bir that night.

Weel loes me o' you, souter Jock
For tricks ye buit be tryin:
Whan grapin for his ain bed-stock,
He fa's whare Will's wife's lyin,

THE ELECTION.

Will, comin hame wi' ither fouk,
He saw Jock there before him ;
Wi' maister laiglen, like a brock,
He did wi' stink maist smoor him,
Fu' strang that night.

Then wi' a souple leathern whang

He gart them fidge and girn ay :"Faith, chiel! ye's no for naething gang, "Gin ye maun reel my pirny."

Syne, wi' a muckle elehin lang

He brodit Maggie's hurdies;

And 'cause he thought her i' the wrang,

There pass'd nae bonnie wordies

"Tween them that night.

Now, had some laird his lady fand
In sic unseemly courses,

It might hae lows'd the haly band,
Wi' law-suits and divorces:

THE ELECTION.

But the niest day, they a' shook hands,
And ilka crack did sowder,

While Meg for drink her apron pawns,
For a' the gudeman cow'd her

Whan fou' last night.

Glowr round the cawsey, up and down, What mobbing and what plotting ! Here politicians bribe a lown

Against his saul for voting.

The gowd that inlakes half a crown
Thir blades lug out to try them,

They pouch the gowd, nor fash the town
For weights and scales to weigh them
Exact that day.

Then Deacons at the counsel stent

To get themsel's presentit :

For towmonths twa their saul is lent,

For the town's gude indentit:

THE ELECTION.

Lang's their debating thereanent,

About protests they're bauthrin;

While Sandy Fife, to mak content,

On bells plays,

"Clout the Caudron,"

To them that day.

Ye lowns that troke in doctor's stuff,
You'll now hae unco slaisters;

Whan windy blaws their stamacks puff,
They'll need baith pills and plaisters:
For tho' e'en-now they look right bluff,
Sic drinks, ere hillocks meet,

Will hap some deacons in a truff,

Inrow'd i' the lang leet

O death yon night.

TO THE

TRON-KIRK BELL.

WANWORDY, crazy, dinsome thing,
As e'er was fram'd to jow or ring,
What gar'd them sic in steeple hing

They ken themsel',

But weel wat I they cou'dna bring

Waur sounds frae h-ll.

What deil are ye? that I shou'd bann,

Your neither kin to pat nor pan,

Nor ulzie pig, nor maister cann,

But weel may gie

Mair pleasure to the ear o' man

Than stroke o' thee.