PAISLEY BURGH CLEANSING BRIGADE
Wha couldnae soop the streets,
An’ keep the pavements clean,
An’ keep oor handsome public square
Fit for the King or Queen?
Gin ye be some foreign tramp,
An’ painter-like brush roon a lamp –
Gin ye’re no forty-five year auld,
Nor feart to catch a waff o’ cold –
Gin ye keep doon the crimson blush,
An’ shouther high a monster brush –
Gin ye’re fit tae handle pick or spade,
There’s a chance for you in the Cleansing Brigade.
But gin ye be a Paisley loon,
An’ poverty’s sting haud ye doon—
Gin ye be forty-six year auld,
Your whisker grey, pow turning bald,
Gin ye seek to find an honest living,
An’ your trade be done, like hand-loom weaving—
According to the rule the Cooncil’s made,
There’s nae chance for you in the Cleansing Brigade.
Tho’ you be strong like Wallace or Bruce,
Ye maun seek for a place in the Craw Road Hoose!
But don’t matter much what folk may endure,
It’s a privilege, ye ken, to have with us the poor.
