Robert Burns

Elegy on the year 1788

written in 1789

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 hast reft us! In what a pickle thou has left us! The Spanish empire's tint a head, And my auld teethless Bawtie's dead; The toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt and 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 middin. Ye ministers, come mount the pupit, An' cry till ye be haerse an' rupit; For Eighty-eight he wished you weel, An' gied ye 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 e'en, For some o' you hae tint a frien'; In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was taen, What ye'll ne'er hae to gi'e again. Observe the very nowt an' sheep, How dowff an' 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 hast got thy Daddy's chair, Nae handcuff'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 you can.

Comment Section just now

Feel free to be first to leave comment.

8/2200 - 0