“Puir bairns,” quo’ he, “we’ll a’ starve noo,
For oor craft will be over-run, sirs.”
Chorus—Oh! the barrin’ o’ oor door, &c.
And Nicholson whimpered wi’ clerical whine,
And Muirhead shook his fist, sirs,
As he thocht o’ how the Scotsman wad chaff
O’ the class he had that day missed, sirs.
Chorus—And the barrin’ o’ oor door, &c.
Lister wept owre his petulant speech,
When he swore he’d resign his chair, sirs,