O Prince! O Chief of many throned Powers, THOU! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in your cavern grim an' sootie, MILTON. Clos'd under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches! Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, E'en to a deil, Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame; Thou travels far; An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Nor blate nor scaur. Whyles, ranging, like a roarin lion, Tirling the kirks; Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, Unseen thou lurks. I've heard my rev'rend graunie зay, Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, Wi' eldritch croon. When twilight did my graunie summon, Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin Wi' eerie drone; Or, rustlin, thro' the boortries comin, Wi' heavy groan. Ae dreary, windy, winter night, Ayont the lough : Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight, Wi' waving sugh. The cudgel in my nieve did shake, When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick-quaick Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake, On whistling wings. Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, Wi' wicked speed; And in kirkyards renew their leagues, Owre howkit dead. Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, By witching skill; An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen As yell's the Bill. Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, By cantrip wit, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit. When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction, An' nighted trav'llers are allur'd To their destruction. An' aft your mos traversing spunkies Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise. When Mason's mystic word an' grip, Or, strange to tell! The youngest brother ye wad whip Aff straught to hell. Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard, The raptur'd hour, Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry sward, In shady bow'r : Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog! An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, (Black be your fa!) An' gied the infant warld a shock, 'Maist ruin'd a', D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man of Uzz Your spitefu' joke? An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, Wi' bitter claw, An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd wicked scawl, Was warst ava ? But a' your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce, Down to this time In prose or rhyme. Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinking, 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 I'm wae to think upo' yon den, Ev'n for your sake! THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. AN UNCO MORNFU' TALE. As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted han's, * A neibor herd-callan. 'Tell him, if e'er again he keep, O, bid him save their harmless lives, 'An' may they never learn the gaets Of ither wile, wanresfu' pets! To slink thro' slaps, an' reave, an' steal, An' bairns greet for them when they're dead. An' niest my yowie, silly thing, And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith: |