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But hear me, sir, deil as ye are,

Look something to your credit;
A coof like him wad stain your name,

If it were kent ye did it.


ROBERT BURNS. “O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, That led th' embattled Seraphim to war!".-

O tHot! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie,

Closed under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,

To scaud poor wretches !

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

Een to a deil

, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,

An' hear us squeel!

Great is thy power, an' great thy fame;
Far kennd and noted is thy name:
An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame,

Thou travels far:
An,' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,

Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion,
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin';
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin'

Tirlin the kirks;
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

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 sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake,
When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick-quaick-

Amang the springs,
Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake,

On whistling 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 an' pain,
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain :
For, oh! the yellow treasure's taen

By witching skill;
An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen

As yell's the bill.

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 Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is : The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys

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 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!
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,
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?

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

Wi' bitter claw,
And lows'd his ill-tongu’d, wicked scawl,

Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an' fechtin' 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',
Some luckless hour will send him linkin'

To your black pit;
But, faith! he 'll turn a corner jinkin',

An' cheat you yet.

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an' men'!
Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken-

Still hae a stake-
I'm wae to think upo' yon den,

Ev'n for your sake!!

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From his brimstone bed at break of day

A walking the Devil is gone,
To look at his snug little farm of the World,

And see how his stock went on.

Over the hill and over the dale,

And he went over the plain;
And backward and forward he swisn'd his tail,

As a gentleman swishes a cane.

How then was the Devil drest?

Oh, he was in his Sunday's best
His coat was red and his breeches were blue,
And there was a hole where his tail came through.

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,
With an eye as wicked as wicked can be,
I should take her for my Aunt, thought he,

If my dam had had a sister.


He met a lord of high degree,

No matter what was his name;
Whose face with his own when he came to compare

The expression, the look, and the air,
And the character, too, as it seem'd to a hair--
Such a twin-likeness there was in the pair

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,

On a dung-hill beside his stable; Hal quoth he, thou put'st me in mind

Of the story of Cain and Abel.

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

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