| |
| 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, | 5 |
| To scaud poor wretches! | |
| |
| Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, | |
| An’ let poor damned bodies be; | |
| I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie, | |
| Ev’n to a deil, | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| Thou travels far; | |
| An’ faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame, | |
| Nor blate, nor scaur. | |
| |
| Whiles, ranging like a roarin lion, | |
| For prey, a’ holes and corners tryin; | 20 |
| Whiles, on the strong-wind’d tempest flyin, | |
| Tirlin the kirks; | |
| Whiles, in the human bosom pryin, | |
| Unseen thou lurks. | |
| |
| I’ve heard my rev’rend graunie say, | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
| |
| 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, | 35 |
| 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; | 40 |
| Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight, | |
| Wi’ wavin’ sough. | |
| |
| The cudgel in my nieve did shake, | |
| Each brist’ld hair stood like a stake, | |
| When wi’ an eldritch, stoor “quaick, quaick,” | 45 |
| 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, | 50 |
| 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, | 55 |
| May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in vain; | |
| For oh! the yellow treasure’s ta’en | |
| By witchin’ skill; | |
| An’ dawtit, twal-pint hawkie’s gane | |
| As yell’s the bill. | 60 |
| |
| 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, | 65 |
| 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, | 70 |
| 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 | 75 |
| 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, | 80 |
| 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, | 85 |
| 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 swaird, | |
| In shady bower; 1 | 90 |
| |
| Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog! | |
| Ye cam to Paradise incog, | |
| An’ play’d on man a cursèd brogue, | |
| (Black be your fa’!) | |
| An’ gied the infant warld a shog, | 95 |
| ’Maist rui’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, | 100 |
| 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’, | |
| While scabs and botches did him gall, | 105 |
| 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, | 110 |
| Sin’ that day Michael 2 did you pierce, | |
| Down to this time, | |
| Wad ding a Lallan tounge, or Erse, | |
| In prose or rhyme. | |
| |
| An’ now, auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkin, | 115 |
| 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. | 120 |
| |
| But fare-you-weel, auld Nickie-ben! | |
| O wad ye tak a thought an’ men’! | |
| Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken— | |
| Stil hae a stake | |
| I’m wae to think up’ yon den, | 125 |
| Ev’n for your sake! | |
