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ELEGY
on
THE YEAR 1788.
By Robert Burns.
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!
