The Political Miller.—A Song.

My grist has lang been in the mill,
I’ve halflins lost the mindin’ o’t,
Which mak’s me rage against my will
While waitin’ on the grindin’ o’t.
Oh, weary on the grindin’ o’t,
Oh, weary on the grindin’ o’t,
It mak’s me rage against my will,
While waitin’ on the grindin’ o’t.

I’ve borrow flour baith up and down,
Till now ’tis hard at findin’ o’t,
My banns be on the millar loon,
That winna haste the grindin o’t.
Oh! weary on the grindin o’t, &c.

My bairnies cry for want o’ bread,
’Tis vexing hard the finding o’t;
The thoughts o’ want maist turns my head,
Since he’s sae lang at grindin’ o’t.
Oh! weary on the grindin’ o’t, &c.

Though aft tae ane he’ll promise fair,
Yet, oh, he’s ill at mindin o’t;
Since politics is all his care,
He aye forgets the grindin’ o’t.
Oh! weary on the grindin’ o’t, &c.

Baith night and day he’ll wildly rave,
His tongue, there is nae bindin’ o’t;
Frae madness him, oh, mercy save!
And mak’ him haste the grindin’ o’t.
Oh! weary on the grindin’ o’t, &c.