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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!
January I. 1789.
LINES,
Written at Dalnacardoch in the Highlands.
By Robert Burns.
Whan Death's dark stream I ferry o'er,
A time that surely shall come;
In Heaven itself, I ask no more
Than just a Highland welcome.
