O Thou! who poured the patriotic tide Or nobly die, the second glorious part, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, O thou! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 1 Closed under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie2, Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, To skelp3 an' scaud poor dogs like me, Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame; 4 An', faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion, Whyles in the human bosom pryin, I've heard my reverend grannie say, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, When twilight did my grannie summon, Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees3 comin, 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, Let warlocks' grim, an' withered hags, And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, Thence, countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, By witching skill; 6 An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen As yell's the bill. When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord ", Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord, An' nighted Trav'llers are allured An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies " Till in some miry slough he sunk is, When masons' mystic word an' grip, The youngest 'brother' ye wad whip Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard, Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird, Then you, ye auld, snick-drawin1 dog! An' played on man a cursed brogue, An' gied the infant warld a shog*, D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz3, An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' lowsed 1o his ill-tongued wicked scaul", But a' your doings to rehearse, An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin', But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben! 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, 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. |