O Thou! who poured the patriotic tide Or nobly die, the second glorious part, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! ADDRESS TO THE DEIL O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, O thou! whatever title suit thee, Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, Spairges about the brunstane cootic", Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 3 To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame; An', faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, 5 1 splashes. ? footpail. 3 slap. "Neither bashful nor apt to be scared. ⚫ flaming pit. Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion, Whyles in the human bosom pryin, I've heard my reverend grannie say, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, When twilight did my grannie summon, 3 Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees 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-buss, stood in sight, Wi' waving sough. The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Awa ye squattered like a drake, On whistling wings. 1 wizards. • fondled. ⚫ thaws. Let warlocks' grim, an' withered hags, And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, Thence, countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 6 An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen As yell's the bill. When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord 10, Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord, An' nighted Trav'llers are allured To their destruction. 11 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 2 ragwort. 10 hoard. digged up. Will-o'-the-wisp. ⚫ churn. ⚫ bull. Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard, Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird, Then you, ye auld, snick-drawin1 dog! An' played on man a cursed brogue, An' gied the infant warld a shog', D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz3, An' sklented on the man of Uzz 8 An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' lowsed 10 his ill-tongued wicked scaul", But a' your doings to rehearse, 13 Your wily snares and fechtin fierce, Wad ding 16 a' Lallan 16 tongue, or Erse, An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, Some luckless hour will send him linkin' But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin', But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben! 3 I'm wae to think upo' yon den, Ev'n for your sake! FROM THE HOLY FAIR.' Now, butt an' ben', the change-house fills, 5 Wi' yill-caup commentators: Here's crying out for bakes an' gills, An' there the pint-stowp clatters ; They raise a din, that, in the end, Is like to breed a rupture O' wrath that day. |