But hear me, sir, deil as ye are, Look something to your credit; ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. ROBERT BURNS. "O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, That led th' embattled Seraphim to war!" -- O THOU! whatever title suit thee, MILTON. Closed under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches! Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, E'en to a deil, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, Great is thy power, an' great thy fame; An,' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion, For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin'; 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 ruin'd castles, gray, Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way When twilight did my Grannie summon 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 sough. The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick-quaick Awa Amang the springs, On whistling wings. ye squatter'd, like a drake, Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, By witching skill; An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen Thence mystic knots mak great abuse On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse, When the best wark-lume i' the house, By cantrip wit, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit. When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, An' float the jinglin icy-boord, Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction; An' nighted trav'lers are allur'd To their destruction. 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 Aff straught to hell! Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, An' all the soul of love they shar'd, The raptur'd hour, Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry sward, In shady bow'r: Then you, ye auld, snec-drawing dog! 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, Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz, Ye did present your smoutie phiz 'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man of Uz Your spitefu' joke? And lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked scawl, But a' your doings to rehearse, Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin', Some luckless hour will send him linkin' FROM his brimstone bed at break of day A walking the Devil is gone, To look at his snug little farm of the World, Over the hill and over the dale, And he went over the plain; And backward and forward he swish'd his tail, How then was the Devil drest? Oh, he was in his Sunday's best His coat was red and his breeches were blue, A lady drove by in her pride, In whose face an expression he spied For which he could have kiss'd her; Such a flourishing, fine, clever woman was she, He met a lord of high degree, No matter what was his name; Whose face with his own when he came to compare And the character, too, as it seem'd to a hair- That it made the Devil start and stare, For he thought there was surely a looking-glass there, But he could not see the frame. He saw a Lawyer killing a viper, An Apothecary on a white horse Rode by on his vocation; And the Devil thought of his old friend Death in the Revelation. He pass'd a cottage with a double coach-house, A cottage of gentility, And he own'd with a grin That his favorite sin, Is pride that apes humility. |