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I've heard my reverend grannie say,
Nod to the moon,
Wi' eldritch croon.
When twilight did my grannie summon, To say her prayers, douce, honest woman! Aft yont the dyke she's heard you hummin:
Wi' eerie drone ;
Wi’ heavy groan.
Ayont the lough:
Wi' waving sugh.
Amang the springs,
On whistling wings.
Wi' wicked speed;
Owre howkit dead.
For, oh! the yellow treasure's taen
By witching skill: An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen
As yell's the Bill.
By cantrip wit,
Just at the bit.
When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, And float the jingling 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 Mason's 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 h-11! Long syne, in Eden's bonie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were pair’d; An' a'the saul of love they shar'd
The raptur'd hour,
Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird,
In shady bow'r:
Then you, ye auld, sníck-drawing dog!
(Black be your fa?!) An' gied the infant warld a shog,
'Maist ruin'd a'.
D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Mang better folk,
Your spitefu' joke?
An' how ye gat him i’ your thrall,
Wi' bitter claw,
Was warst ava?
But a' your doings to rehearse, Your willy snares an' fetchin 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,
* Vide Milton, Book VI.
Some luckless hour will send him linkin,
To your black pit;
An' cheat you yet.,
Still hae a stake
Ev'n for your sake!
ON THE LATE
PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, COLLECT
ING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM.
HEAR Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots,
I rede ye tent it:
And, faith, he'll prent it.
If in your bounds ye chance to light
That's he, mark v
And vow! he has an unco slight
O' eauk and keel.
By some auld, houlet-haunted-biggio, *
Some eldritch part,
At some black art.
Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or cham'er, Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamor, And you, deep-read in hell's black grammar,
Warlocks and witches; Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer,
Ye midnight bes.
It's tauld he was a sodger bred, And ane wad rather fa’n than Aed; But now he's quat the spurtle blade,
And dog-skin wallet, And taen the
I think they call ito
He has a feuth o'auld nich-nackets!
A towmont guid;
Before the flood.
Vide his Antiquities of Scotland.
'ide his Treatise on Ancient Armour and