Page:Elegy on the year eighty-eight.pdf/2

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ELEGY

THE YEAR 1788.

For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn,

E’en let them die—for that they’re born!

But oh! prodigious to reflect,

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 has reft us!

In what a pickle thou has left us!

The Spanish empire’s tint a head,

An’ my auld teethless Bawtie’s dead;

The toolzie’s teugh ’tween Pitt an’ Fox,

An’ our gudewife’s wee birdy cocks;

The tane is game, a bluidy devil,

But to the hen-birds unco civil;

The tither’s dour, has nae sic breedin’,

But better stuff ne’er claw’d a midden!

Ye ministers, come mount the pupit,

An’ cry till ye be haerse an’ rupit;

For Eighty-eight he wish’d you weel,

An’ gi’ed you a’ baith gear an’ meal;

E’en mony a plack, an’ mony a peck,

Ye ken yoursels, for little feck!