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Poem by Robert Burns

Elegy on the Year 1788

FOR Lords or Kings I dinna mourn,
Een let them die-for that theyre 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 hast left us!
  The Spanish empires tint a head,
And my auld teethless Bawties dead!
The tulzies sair tween Pitt an Fox,
An our gudewifes wee birdy cocks;
The tane is game, a bludie devil,
But to the hen-birds unco civil;
The tithers something dour o treadin,
But better stuff neer clawd a midden.
  Ye ministers, come mount the poupit,
An cry till ye be hearse an roupet,
For Eighty-eight he wishd you weel,
And gied you a baith gear an meal;
Een mnony a plack, and mony a peck,
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck.
  Ye bonnie lasses, dight your een,
For some o you hae tint a frien;
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was taen
What yell neer hae to gie again.
  Observe the very nowt an sheep,
How dowf and daviely they creep;
Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry,
For Embrugh wells are grutten dry.
  O Eighty-nine, thous but a bairn,
An no owre auld, I hope, to learn!
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care,
Thou now hast got thy daddies chair,
Nae hand-cuffd, mizzld, hap-shackld Regent,
But, like himsel, a full free agent.
Be sure ye follow out the plan
Nae waur than he did, honest man:
As mnuckle better as you can.

January I, 1789.

Robert Burns

Robert Burns's other poems:
  1. Epitaph on Wee Johnny
  2. The Cairds Second Song
  3. The Sailors Song
  4. Ye Sons of Old Killie
  5. Had I The Wyte

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