Page:Elegy on the year eighty-eight.pdf/4

( 4 ) ELEGY

's gane! she's gane!—o'er true the tale!

She's left us a' to sab an' wail!—

Auld Clatterbanes has hit the nail

Upon the head:

De'il! o' his carcase mak' a flail,

Since 's dead!

O Death! O Death! thou'rt void o' feelin',

For wi' thy deidly whittle stealin'

Thro' gentle hald, or hamely shealin'

Wi divet riggin',

Thou sends the best o' bodies reelin'

To their cauld biggin'!

Hadst thou but seized wi' thy claw

A Lord—a Duke—or baith the twa!—

The skaith, I trow, wad been sae sma'

Ane might forgi'e ye;

But thus to steal awa',

O wae be ti' ye!