On The Year 1788

A SKETCH.

[This Poem was first printed by Stewart, in 1801. The poet loved to indulge in such sarcastic sallies: it is full of character, and reflects a distinct image of those yeasty times.]

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 ha'e taken place! Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us! In what a pickle thou hast left us!

The Spanish empire's tint a-head, An' my auld toothless Bawtie's dead; The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt and Fox, And our guid wife's wee birdie cocks; The tane is game, a bluidie devil, But to the hen-birds unco civil: The tither's something dour o' treadin', But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden-- Ye ministers, come mount the pu'pit, An' cry till ye be hearse an' roupet, For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel, An' gied you a' baith gear an' meal; E'en mony a plack, and mony a peck, Ye ken yoursels, for little feck!

Ye bonnie lasses, dight your e'en, 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 gie again.

Observe the very nowt an' sheep, How dowf and dowie now they creep; Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, For Embro' wells are grutten dry. O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn, An' no owre 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, hap-shackl'd Regent, But, like himsel' a full free agent. Be sure ye follow out the plan Nae waur than he did, honest man! As muckle better as ye can.

January 1, 1789.

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XCVIII.

ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE.

["I had intended," says Burns to Creech, 30th May, 1789, "to have troubled you with a long letter, but at present the delightful sensation of an omnipotent toothache so engrosses all my inner man, as to put it out of my power even to write nonsense." The poetic Address to the Toothache seems to belong to this period.]

My curse upon thy venom'd stang, That shoots my tortur'd gums alang; And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang, Wi' gnawing vengeance; Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, Like racking engines!

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes; Our neighbours' sympathy may ease us, Wi' pitying moan; But thee--thou hell o' a' diseases, Ay mocks our groan!

Adown my beard the slavers trickle! I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle, As round the fire the giglets keckle, To see me loup; While, raving mad, I wish a heckle Were in their doup.

O' a' the num'rous human dools, Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, Sad sight to see! The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, Thou bears't the gree.

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, And ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw, Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell Amang them a'!

O thou grim mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes of discord squeel, 'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick!-- Gie' a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A towmond's Toothache.

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XCIX.