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 reflect,
A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck!
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space
What dire events ha'e 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 toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt and Fox,
An' our gudewife's wee birdy cocks;
The tane is game, a bluidy devil,
But to the hen-birds unco civil;
The tither's dour, has nae sic breedin',
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a middin.

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

Ye bonny 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 gi'e again.

Observe the very nowt an' sheep,
How dowff an' dowie now they creep;
Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry,
For Embro' 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.