There, Learning, wi' his Greekish face, An' Common Sense is gaun, she says, Her plaint this day. But there's Morality himsel, Hear, how he gies the tither yell, Now there-they're packed aff to hell, Henceforth this day. O happy day! rejoice, rejoice! Shall here nae mair find quarter: By th' head some day. Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, 5 New Light is a cant phrase, in the West of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended so strenuously. If mair they deave us wi' their din, We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin, Like oil, some day. THE CALF. To the Reb. Mr. ON HIS TEXT, MALACHI, CH. IV. VER. 2. 'And they shall go forth, and grow up, like calves of the stall.' RIGHT, Sir! your text I'll prove it true, And should some Patron be so kind, I doubtna, Sir, but then we'll find, But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power, Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, Your but-and-ben adorns, The like has been that you may wear And in your lug, most reverend James, To hear you roar and rowte, Few men o' sense will doubt your To rank amang the nowte. claims And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, Wi' justice they may mark your head- ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. O Prince! O Chief of many throned Powers, MILTON. O THOU! Whatever title suit thee, Closed under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, E'en to a deil, To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me, An' hear us squeel! Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame; An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Nor blate nor scaur. Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion, Tirling the kirks; Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, Unseen thou lurks. I've heard my reverend Grannie say, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, 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 bummin, Wi' eerie drone; Or, rustlin, 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-bush, 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, Wi' wicked speed; And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, Owre howkit dead. Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, By witching skill; An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen As yell's the Bill. Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, By cantrip wit, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit. When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction, An' nighted Trav'llers are allur'd To their destruction. |