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And in your lug, most reverend James,
To hear you roar and rowte,
To rank amang the nowte.
And when ye’re number'd wi' the dead,
Below a grassy hillock,
“Here lies a famous bullock !”
TO THE DEIL.
Oh prince! Oh chief of many throned pow'kite That led the embattl'd seraphim to war.
O thou! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,
Clos'd under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretches !
Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
E'n to a deil,
An hear us squeel !
Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame;
Thou travels far ;
Nor blate nor scaur.
Whyles ranging like a roarin lion, For prey, a' boles an' corners tryin ;
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin,
Tirling the kirks; Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,
Unseen thou lurks.
I've heard my reverend graunie say,
Nod to the moon,
Wi' eldritch croon.
When twilight did my graunie summon, To say her prayers, douce, honest woman! Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin,
Wi' eerie drone ; Or, ruslin, thro' the boortries comin,
Wi' heavy groan.
Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
Ayont the lough ;
Wi' waving sugh.
The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Amang the springs,
On whistling wings.
Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags, They skim the muirs, an' dizzy crags,
Wi' wicked speed ; And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
Owre howkit dead.
Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain ;
For, oh! the yellow treasure's taen
By witching skill; An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen
As yell's the bill.
Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse; When the best wark-lume i’ the house,
By cantrip wit, Is instant made no worth a louse,
Just at the bit.
When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, An' float the jinglin icy-boord, Then water-kelpies haunt the foord,
By your direction, An' nighted trav'llers are allur'd
To their destruction.
An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is : The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkjes
Delude his eyes, Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne'er mair to rise.
When masons' mystic word an' grik, In storms an' tempests raise you up, Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,
Or, strange to tell The youngest brother ye wad whip
Aff straught to hell !
Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were pairid, An' all the soul of love they shar'd,
The raptur'd hour, Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry sward,
In shady bow'r:
Then, you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog! Ye came to Paradise incogn,
An' play'd on man a cursed brogue,
(Black be your fa!) An' gied the infant warld a shod,
'Maist ruin'd a'.
D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man of Uz
Your spitefu' joke?
An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,
Wi' bitter claw,
Was warst ava?
But a' your doings to rehearse,
Down to this time,
In prose or rhyme.
An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, A certain bardie's rantin, drinkin, Some luckless hour will send him linkin
To your black pit; But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin,
An' cheat you yet.
But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!
Still hae a stake-
Ev’n for your sake!
* Vide Milton, book vi.
THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS
OF POOR MAILIE,
THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE:
An unco mournfu' tale.
As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither,
Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted han's,
“ O, thou, whase lamentable face
“ Tell him, if e'er again he keep
66 Tell him, he was a master kin',
“O, bid him save their harmless lives, Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives !
* A neibor herd-callan.