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.