COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT

And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride,

Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide;

But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.

From scenes like these, old Scotia's grandeur springs,
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad:
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
"An honest man's the noblest work of God;"
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road,
The cottage leaves the palace far behind;
What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd!

O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And O may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile!

Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,

A virtuous populace may rise the while,

And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd isle.

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide,

That stream'd thro' great unhappy Wallace' heart,
Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride,

Or nobly die, the second glorious part:
(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
O never, never Scotia's realm desert;
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard

In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL

Address to the Deil.1

"O Prince! O chief of many throned pow'rs
That led th' embattl'd seraphim to war-'

"

MILTON.

O THOU! whatever title suit thee-
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,

Clos'd under hatches,

Spairges about the brunstane cootie,b

To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damnèd bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,

Ev'n to a deil,

To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow'r an' great thy fame;
Far ken'd an' noted is thy name;
An' tho' yon lowin' heuch's thy hame,
Thou travels far;

An' faith! thou's neither lage nor lame,
Nor blate, nor scaur.'

Whiles, ranging like a roarin lion,

For prey, a' holes and corners tryin;

Whiles, on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin,

Tirling the kirks;

Whiles, in the human bosom pryin,

Unseen thou lurks.

f bashful nor timid.

• slow. 1 The date is fixed by the circumstance, as Mr Scott Douglas notes, that, in the seventh verse from the end, "bonie Jean" was celebrated, in the original draught. But the affair with Miss Armour ceased to run straight, so the name was expunged and the

stanza was altered. This was early in 1786. The Mason's Word, in stanza fourteenth, is very solemnly dealt with by the Rev. Robert Kirk of Aberfoyle, (later carried away by the Fairies,) in his Secret Commonwealth.

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL

I've heard my rev'rend graunie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or where auld ruin'd castles grey

Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way,

Wi' eldritch croon."

When twilight did my graunie summon,
To say her pray'rs, douse, honest woman!
Aft 'yont the dyke she's heard you bummin,
Wi' eerie drone;

Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees comin,

Wi' heavy groan.

e

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-buss,' stood in sight,

Wi' wavin sough.g

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake,

When wi' an eldritch, stoorh "quaick, quaick,"

Amang the springs,

Awa ye squatter'd like a drake,

On whistlin wings.

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags,
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags,

Wi' wicked speed;

And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
Owre howkit' dead.

Thence countra wives, wi' toil and pain,
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain ;

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL

For oh! the yellow treasure's ta'en

By witchin skill;

An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gane.

As yell's the bill."

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse
On
young guidmen, fond, keen an' croused
When the best wark-lume i' the house,
By cantrip1 wit,

e

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,

And 'nighted trav'llers are allur'd

To their destruction.

And aft your moss-traversin 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 masons' 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 brither ye wad whip

Aff straught to hell.

Lang syne in Eden's bonie yard,

When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL

An' all the soul of love they shar'd,

The raptur'd hour,

Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird,

In shady bower;1

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog!

Ye cam to Paradise incog,

An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, b

(Black be your fa'!)

An' gied the infant warld a shog,

'Maist ruin'd a'.

D'ye mind that day when in a bizzd
Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz'

'Mang better folk,

An' sklented on the man of Uzz

Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,
An' brak him out o' house an hal',h
While scabs and botches did him gall,

Wi' bitter claw;

An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd wicked scaul','

Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce,

Sin' that day Michael 2 did you pierce,

Down to this time,

Wad ding a Lallan3 tongue, or Erse,k

In prose or rhyme.

• shake.
! smutty face.

j Lowland.

d ferment.

8 slanted.

k Gaelic.