Elegy On The Year 1788 A Sketch.

    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 ha'e taken place!
    Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us!
    In what a pickle thou hast left us!

    The Spanish empire's tint a-head,
    An' my auld toothless Bawtie's dead;
    The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt and Fox,
    And our guid wife's wee birdie cocks;
    The tane is game, a bluidie devil,
    But to the hen-birds unco civil:
    The tither's something dour o' treadin',
    But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden,
    Ye ministers, come mount the pu'pit,
    An' cry till ye be hearse an' roupet,
    For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel,
    An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal;
    E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck,
    Ye ken yoursels, for little feck!

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

    Observe the very nowt an' sheep,
    How dowf and 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 has got thy daddy's chair,
    Nae hand-cuff'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 ye can.

January 1, 1789.