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.