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And in your lug, most reverend James,
To hear you roar and rowte,

Few men o' sense will doubt your claims
To rank amang the nowte.

And when ye're number'd wi❞ the dead,
Below a grassy hillock,

Wi' justice they may mark your head-
"Here lies a famous bullock!"



Oh prince! Oh chief of many throned pow'r
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,
An' let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,

E'n to a deil,

To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,

An hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame;

Far kend and noted is thy name;

An' tho' yon 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 tempest flyin,

Tirling the kirks;

Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,

Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend graunie say, 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 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,
The stars shot down wi' sklentin light,
Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright,

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 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 monkies
Delude his eyes,

Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne'er mair to rise.

When masons' mystic word an' grip, 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 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 shod,

'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 Uz

Your spitefu' joke?

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

Wi' bitter claw,

An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked scayt,
Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce,
Sin' that day Michael* did you pierce,

Down to this time,

Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,

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!
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!

* Vide Milton, book vi.




An unco mournfu' 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 length 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.
"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, an' grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo!
"Tell him, he was a master kin',
An' aye 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' butchers' knives!

* A neibor herd-callan.

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