O Thou! who poured the patriotic tide
That streamed thro' Wallace's undaunted heart;
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride,

Or nobly die, the second glorious part,
(The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
O never, never Scotia's realm desert;
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard,

In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.

O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs,
That led th' embattled Seraphim to war.-Milton.

O thou! whatever title suit thee,

Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,

1

Closed under hatches,

Spairges about the brunstane cootie2,
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,
Ev'n to a deil,

To skelp3 an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame;
Far kenn'd an' noted is thy name:
An', tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame,
Thou travels far;

4

An', faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur 5

Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion,
For prey a' holes an' corners tryin;
Whyles on the strong-winged tempest flyin,
Tirlin' the kirks;

Whyles in the human bosom pryin,
Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend grannie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or where auld ruined castles, gray,
Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way,
Wi' eldritch croon 2.

When twilight did my grannie summon,
To say her pray'rs, douce, honest woman!
Aft 'yont the dyke she's heard you bummin,
W'eerie drone;

Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees3 comin,
Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night,

4

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 sough.

6

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,

Each bristled hair stood like a stake,
When wi' an eldritch, stoor", ‘quaick, quaick.'
Amang the springs,

Let warlocks' grim, an' withered hags,
Tell how wi' you on ragweed 2 nags,
They skim the muirs, an' dizzy crags,
Wi' wicked speed;

And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
Owre howkits 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;

6

An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen

As yell's the bill.

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 allured
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 paired,
An' all the soul of love they shared,
The raptured hour,

Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird,
In shady bow'r :

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawin1 dog!
Ye came to Paradise incog,

An' played on man a cursed brogue,
(Black be you fa'3!)

An' gied the infant warld a shog*,
'Maist ruined a'.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz3,
Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz',
Ye did present your sinoutie phiz*
'Mang better folk,

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

An' lowsed 1o his ill-tongued wicked scaul",
Was warst ava 12?

But a' your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares and fechtin 13 fierce,
Sin' that day Michael1 did you pierce,

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-

3

I'm wae to think upo' yon den,

Ev'n for your sake!

FROM 'THE HOLY FAIR.'

Now, butt an' ben, the change-house fills,
Wi' yill-caup commentators:

5

6

Here's crying out for bakes an' gills,

An' there the pint-stowp clatters ;

While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang,

Wi' logic, an' wi' Scripture,

They raise a din, that, in the end,

Is like to breed a rupture

O' wrath that day.