Classic Poem

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 hast 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' gied 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' 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, haff-shackl'd Regent,
But, like himsel', a full free agent.
Be sure ye follow out the plan
Nae war than he did, honest man!
As muckle better as you can.

January 1, 1789.