Elegy On The Year 1788

     For lords or kings I dinna mourn,
     E'en let them die—for that they're born:
     But oh! prodigious to reflec'!
     A Towmont, sirs, is gane to wreck!
     O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space,
     What dire events hae taken place!
     Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us!
     In what a pickle thou has left us!

     The Spanish empire's tint a head,
     And my auld teethless, Bawtie's dead:
     The tulyie's teugh 'tween Pitt and Fox,
     And 'tween our Maggie's twa wee cocks;
     The tane is game, a bluidy devil,
     But to the hen-birds unco civil;
     The tither's something dour o' treadin,
     But better stuff ne'er claw'd a middin.

     Ye ministers, come mount the poupit,
     An' cry till ye be hearse an' roupit,
     For Eighty-eight, he wished you weel,
     An' gied ye a' baith gear an' meal;
     E'en monc a plack, and mony a peck,
     Ye ken yoursels, for little feck!

     Ye bonie lasses, dight your e'en,
     For some o' you hae tint a frien';
     In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was taen,
     What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again.

     Observe the very nowt an' sheep,
     How dowff an' daviely they creep;
     Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry,
     For E'nburgh wells are grutten dry.

     O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn,
     An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn!
     Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care,
     Thou now hast got thy Daddy's chair;
     Nae handcuff'd, mizl'd, hap-shackl'd Regent,
     But, like himsel, a full free agent,
     Be sure ye follow out the plan
     Nae waur than he did, honest man!
     As muckle better as you can.

January, 1, 1789.