elegy on the year 1788
  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 hae 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 tulyie's teugh 'tween pitt and fox,
  and 'tween our maggie's twa wee cocks;
  the tane is game, a bluidy devil,
  but to the hen-birds unco civil;
  the tither's something dour o' treadin,
  but better stuff ne'er claw'd a middin.
  ye ministers, come mount the poupit,
  an' cry till ye be hearse an' roupit,
  for eighty-eight, he wished you weel,
  an' gied ye a' baith gear an' meal;
  e'en monc a plack, and mony a peck,
  ye ken yoursels, for little feck!
  ye bonie 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 gie again.
  observe the very nowt an' sheep,
  how dowff an' daviely they creep;
  nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry,
  for e'nburgh 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.
  january, 1, 1789.