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.