The Poetry of Robert Burns Edited by William Ernest Henley and Thomas F. Henderson |
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ELEGY ON THE DEPARTED YEAR 1788 |
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 | The Poetry of Robert Burns |  |
ELEGY ON THE DEPARTED YEAR 1788
For lords or kings I dinna mourn;
E'en let them die—for that they're born;
But O, prodigious to reflect,
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!
E'en let them die—for that they're born;
But O, prodigious to reflect,
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!
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The Spanish empire's tint a head,
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead;
The tulyie's teugh 'tween Pitt and Fox,
An' our guidwife's wee birdie cocks:
The tane is game, a bluidie 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.
An' my auld teethless Bawtie's dead;
The tulyie's teugh 'tween Pitt and Fox,
An' our guidwife's wee birdie cocks:
The tane is game, a bluidie 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 poupit,
An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupet,
For Eighty-Eight, he wished you weel,
An' gied ye a' baith gear an' meal:
E'en monie a plack and monie a peck,
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck!
An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupet,
For Eighty-Eight, he wished you weel,
An' gied ye a' baith gear an' meal:
E'en monie a plack and monie a peck,
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck!
Ye bonie lasses, dight your een,
For some o' you hae tint a frien':
In Eighty-Eight, ye ken, was taen
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again.
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 vera nowte an' sheep,
How dowff an' dowilie they creep!
Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry,
For Embro' wells are grutten dry!
How dowff an' dowilie 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 Daddie's chair:
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn!
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care,
Thou now has got thy Daddie's chair:
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Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, half-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 ye can.
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 ye can.
January 1, 1789.
| The Poetry of Robert Burns | |