Elegy on the Year 1788

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!

Ye bonny lasses, dight your een; For some o' you ha'e tint a frien'; In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta’en What ye'll ne'er ha'e to gi'e again.

Observe the very nowt an' sheep, How dowff an' dowielie they creep; Nae, even the yirth itsell does cry, For Embro' walls are grutten dry.

O Eighty-eight, thou'se but a bairn, An' no o’er auld, I hope, to learn! Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care, Thou now has got thy Daddy's chair. Nae hand-cuff'd, mizl'd, haff-shackl'd Regent, But, like himsell, a full free Agent. Be sure ye fallow out the plan Nae war than he did, honest man! As muckle better as you can!