But  with  fresh  original  mind.
And  the  main  thing  after  all,
Must  be  always  the  Town's  affairs —
How  the  Provost  keeps  up  the  ball.
And  the  names  the  Town-Councillors

call
Each  other,  and  nobody  cares.
Then  the  shipping,  and  harbour  dues,
And  what's  to  be  done  with  the  bar,
And  the  kirks  with  their  empty  pews, —
Oh,  there's  plenty  of  capital  news
For  the  paper,  without  going  far.
Then  there's  accidents,  railway  smashes.
And  how  the  poor  shareholder  smarts.
And  the  folk  struck  by  fierce  lightning-
flashes,
And  now  and  then  mercantile  crashes.
Or  children  run  over  by  carts  :

There's   the   Circuit-Courts,  and   the

Member,
And  the  soirees  wound  up  with  a  dance,
And     the     College,     of     course,     in

November,
And     the    woman    the    Queen    will

remember.
With  her  three  little  babies  at  once.
There's   the   stocking-trade,    and   the

police.
The  catch  of  herrings  and  whales.
And  the  cost  of  the  wool  in  the  fleece  ;
Who  cares  about  war  or  peace
When  our  fishers  have  stormy  gales  ?

If  you  like,  you  may  give  us  a  claver
About  folk  of  the  Town  long  ago.
Or  a  song  with  some  body  and  flavour.
Though  I  don't  deny  that  I  never
Read  poems,  unless  I  don't  know.
What  we  want  is  the  news  of  the  Town
To  know  all  about  ourselves  clearly  ;
Now,  I  like  your  looks,  I  own.
And  I  don't  care  although  I  comedown.
With  a  hundred-and-fifty  yearly.
There,  I'm  tired  of  these  long-winded

scrawls ;
Each  harder  to  read  than  the  other  ;
Oh,  they're  all  of  them  Peters  and  Pauls,
Apostles  of  Wisdom  that  calls
In  the  streets,  always  making  a  pother.
