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O Prince! O Chief of many throned Powers,
That led the embattled Seraphim to war-

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,
An' let poor damned bodies be!
I'm sure sma' pleasure can it gie,

E'en to a deil,
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeal!

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame;
Far kend and noted is thy name;
And tho' you lowin heugh's thy hame,

Thou travels far;

An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,

Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging, like a roarin lion,
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin;
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempests flyin,

Tirling the kirks;

Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,

Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my rev'rend graunie зay,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gray,

Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way,

Wi' eldritch croon.

When twilight did my graunie summon,
To say her pray'rs, douce, honest woman!

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,
The stars shot down wi' sklentin light,
Wi' you, mysel, I gat afright,

Ayont the lough :

Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight,

Wi' waving sugh.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake,

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,
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs, an' dizzy crags,

Wi' wicked speed;

And in kirkyards 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 mos traversing spunkies
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is:
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys
Delude his eyes,

Till in some miry slough he sunk is,

Ne'er mair to rise.

When Mason's mystic word an' grip,
In storms an' tempests rise 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 pair'd,
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 incog,

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,
Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz,

'Mang better folk,

An' sklented on the man of Uzz

Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,
An' brak him out o' house an' hall,
While scabs an' blotches did him gall,

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,
Sin that day Michael* did you pierce.
Vide Milton, Book VI.

Down to this time

In prose or rhyme.

Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse,

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinking,
A certain bardie's rantin, drinking,
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!
O wad ye tak a thought an' men' !
Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken-

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,
Were ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc* he cam doytin by.

Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted han's,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's ;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, waes my heart! he could na mend it!
He gaped wide, but naething spak;
At leng poor Mailie silence brak.-
O thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woefu' case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An' bear them to my master dear.

* A neibor herd-callan.

'Tell him, if e'er again he keep,
As muckle gear as buy a sheep,
O, bid him never tie them mair
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair!
But ca' them out to park or hill,
An' let them wander at their will;
So may his flock increase and grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo.
'Tell him he was a master kin',
An' ay was guid to me and mine;
An' now my dying charge I gie him,
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him.

O, bid him save their harmless lives,
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butcher's knives!
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill,
Till they be fit to feed themsel;
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn,
Wi' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn.

'An' may they never learn the gaets Of ither wile, wanresfu' pets!

To slink thro' slaps, an' reave, an' steal,
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail.
So may they, like their great forbears,
For monie a year come thro' the sheers:
So wives will gie them bits o' bread,

An' bairns greet for them when they're dead.
'My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir,
O, bid him breed him up wi' care!
An', if he live to be a beast,
To pit some havins in his breast!
An' warn him, what I winna name,
To stay content wi' yowes at hame;
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots,
Like ither mensless graceless brutes.

An' niest my yowie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether string!
O, may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi' only blastit moorland toop;
But ay keep mind to moop an mell,
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel!

And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath

I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith:

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