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.