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 ce!

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 ie'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 w'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;