Hurrah for the Postman, The Great Roland Hill

By steam we now travel mair quick than the eagle,
A sixty mile trip for the price of a sang!
A prin it has powntit - th'Atlantic surmountit,
We'll compass the Globe in a fortnight or lang.

CHORUS:  Come send round the liquor and fill to the brim
         A bumper to Railroads, the Press, Gas, and Steam;
         To rags, bags and nutgalls, Ink, paper and quill,
         The Post and the Postman, the great Roland Hill.

The Gas bleezes brightly, you witness it nightly
Our Ancestors lived unco lang in the dark;
Their wisdom was folly, their sense melancholy
When compared to sic wonderful modern wark.

Neist o' rags, bags and size then, let no one despise them,
Without them whar wad a' our paper come frae?
The dark flood o' Ink too, I'm given to think too,
Could as ill be wanted at this time o' day.

The quill it's a queer thing, a cheap and a dear thing,
A weak looking object, but gude kens how strang,
Sometimes it is ceevil, sometimes it's the deevil,
Tak tent when you touch it, you had nae it wrang.

The Press I'll next mention, a noble invention,
The great mental cook with resources so vast;
It spreads on bright pages the knowledge o' ages,
And tells to the future the things of the past.

Hech, Sirs! but it's awfu' (but ne'er mind it's lawfu')
To saddle the Postman wi' sic meikle bags;
Wi' epistles and sonnets, love billets and groan-ets,
Ye'll tear the poor Postie to shivers and rags.

Noo Jock sends to Jenny, it costs but ae penny,
A screed that has near broke the Dictionar's back,
Fu' o dove-in' and dear-in' and "thoughts" on the shearin'!!
Nae need noo o' whisp'rin' ayont a wheat-stack.

Auld drivers were lazy, their mail coaches crazy,
At ilk Public House they stopt for a gill;
But noo at the gallop, cheap mail-bags maun wallop,
Hurrah for our Postman, the great Roland Hill.

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Copyright © 2001, Jack Campin