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.