« AnteriorContinuar »
TO THE REV, MR.
On his Text, Malachi, iv. 2. “And they shall go forth, and grow
up, like CALVES of the stall.”
Right, Sir! your text I'll prove it true,
Though Heretics may laugh;
God knows, an unco Calf!
As bless you wi' a kirk,
Ye're still as great a Stirk..
Shall ever be your lot,
You e'er should be a Stot!
Your but-and-ben adorns,
A noble head of horns.
To hear you roar and rowte,
To rank amang the nowte.
Below a grassy hillock,
Here lies a famous Bullock!'
ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.
O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs,
O THOU! whatever title suit thee,
Closed under hatches,
Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
E'en to a deil,
An' hear us squeel!
Great is thy pow'r, an'great thy fame;
Thou travels far;
Nor blate nor scaur.
Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion,
Tirling the kirks;
Unseen thou lurks.
I've heard my reverend Grannie say,
Nod to the moon,
Wi' eldritch croon.
When twilight did my Grannie summon
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,
Ayont the lough;
Wi' waving sugh.
The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Amang the springs,
On whistling wings.
Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags,
Wi’ wicked speed;
Owre howkit dead.
Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain,
By witching skill;
As yell's the Bill.
Thence mystic knots mak great abuse,
By cantrip wit,
Just at the bit.
When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
By your direction,
To their destruction.
An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies
Delude his eyes,
Ne'er mair to rise.
When Masons' mystic word an' grip,
Or, strange to tell!
Aff straught to hell!
Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, When youthfu' loyers first were pair'd, An' a' the soul of love they shar'd,
The raptur'd hour, Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird,
In shady bow'r:
Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog!
(Black be your fa!) An' gied the infant warld a shog,
'Maist ruin'd a'.
D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
'Mang better fo'k, An' sklented on the man of Uzz
Your spitefu' joke?
An' how ye gat him i’ your thrall,
Wi' bitter claw,
Was warst ava?
But a' your doings to rehearse,
Down to this time,
In prose or rhyme.