Elegy on the year 1788

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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.