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,e 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;