I've heard my reverend grannie say, Or where auld, ruin'd castles, grey, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, When twilight did my grannie summon, Or rustlin thro' the bootries comin, Ae dreary, windy, winter night, Ayont the lough: Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, Wi' waving sugh. The cudgil in my nieve did shake, Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick-quaickAmang the springs, Awa' ye squatter'd, like a drake, On whistling wings. Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, fay plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; For, oh! the yellow treasure's taen An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, Is instant made no worth a louse, 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 Till in some miry slough he sunk is, When Mason's mystic word an' grip The youngest brother ye wad whip Long syne, in Eden's bonie yard, The raptur'd hour, Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird, Then you, ye auld, snick-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 shog, 'Maist ruin'd a'. D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 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 blotches did him gall, Wi' bitter claw, An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked Scawl, 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, But, faith' he'll turn a corner jinkin, But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben! I'm wae to think upo' your den,, Ev'n for your sake! ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. HEAR Land O' Cakes, and brither Scots, A chiel's amang you taking notes, And, faith, he'll prent it. If in your bounds ye chance to light O' stature short, but genius bright, That's he, mark v And vow! he has an unco slight By some auld, houlet-haunted-biggin,* It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in Wi' Deils, they say, L-d safe's! colleaguin 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 b-es. It's tauld he was a sodger bred, And taen the-Antiquarian trade, He has a feuth o' auld nich-nackets! And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets, Vide his Antiquities of Scotland. ide his Treatise on Ancient Armour and s. |