Oh Thou! who poured the patriotic tide,
That streamed through Wallace's undaunted heart,
Who dared 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!)
Oh never, never, Scotia's realm desert;
But still the patriot, and the patriot bard,
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

The Address to the Deil appears to have been produced in early winter, probably before the month of November had expired. Gilbert recollected his brother repeating the poem to him as they were going together with their carts to bring coal for the family fire. The curious idea of such an address was,' he says, 'suggested to him by running over in his mind the many ludicrous accounts and representations we have from various quarters of this august personage.' The poem has been a theme of unmingled praise with all the critics of Burns. As a serio-comic embodiment of popular superstitions, it is unrivalled, and the relenting tenderness of the final stanza is a stroke which could have come from scarcely any other poet.

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.

Oh Prince! oh chief of many throned powers,
That led th' embattled seraphim to war.-MILTON.

Oh thou! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornic, 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 Hangie, for a wee,
And let poor d―d bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
E'en to a deil,

To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me,
And hear us squeel!

'A Scotch appellative of Satan, from his cloven feet or cloots.

2 Burns here imagines a foot-pail, called in Scotland a cootie, as employed by Satan in distributing brimstone over the unfortunates under his care,

When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick—quaick— frightful
Amang the springs,

Awa' ye squattered, like a drake,

On whistling wings.

Let warlocks grim, and withered hags,
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs and dizzy crags,
Wi' wicked speed;

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

excavated

Then you, ye auld sneck-drawing dog!1
Ye came to Paradise incog.

And played on man a cursed brogue,
(Black be your fa'!)

And gied the infant warld a shog,

'Maist ruined a'.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,

shake

bustle

Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz, smoked clothes-withered hair

And lows'd his ill-tongued, wicked scawl, scolding wife
Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares and fechtin' fierce,
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce,
Down to this time,

Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,
In prose or rhyme.

And 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',
And cheat you yet.

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

I'm wae to think upo' yon den,
Even for your sake!

Something should have been said before regarding the scenes and persons amongst which Burns was living at this crisis. In 1833, after a visit to Mauchline for the purpose of making

1 'Sneck-drawing dog' expresses a stealthy, insidious person, who opens doors by drawing the sneck or latch unheard.

inquiries regarding the Mossgiel poet, the editor wrote as follows:

'Mauchline is a parish town of above a thousand inhabitants, in ancient times the seat of a priory belonging to Melrose, but now differing in no respect from a common agricultural village. It is situated upon a slope ascending from the margin of the Ayr, from which it is about two miles distant. One might at first suppose that a rustic population like that of Mauchline would form but a poor field for the descriptive and satirical genius of Burns. It is wonderful, however, how variously original many of the inhabitants of the most ordinary Scottish village will contrive to be. Human nature may be studied everywhere; and perhaps it nowhere assumes so many strikingly distinct forms as in a small cluster of men, such as is to be found in a town of a thousand inhabitants. In such a place every individual luxuriates in his own particular direction, till the whole become as well individualised as the objects of inanimate nature; while in a city the individual is lost in the mass, and no one is greatly different from another. In a small town, the character of every man is well known, so that everything he says and does is felt as characteristic, and enjoyed accordingly. One is a wag, another is a miser, a third exaggerates all he has to relate, a fourth (but this is apt to be less of a distinction) is overinclined to strong waters. Every one is more or less a humorist, and, as such, affords a perpetual fund of amusement to his compeers. If Shakspeare could draw lively delineations of human character from such persons as the originals of Silence and Shallow, it may well be conceived that a genius like Burns must have seen as good subjects in many of the villagers of Mauchline. To give an idea of the taste for wit and humour which might exist in such a scene as this, we may quote what was said by a shopkeeper named D, when on his death-bed, in reference to a person who had been to him and all the other inhabitants as the very sun and soul of fun for many years, and was recently deceased. Even in this melancholy condition, D said he accounted it no small consolation to reflect that he had lived in the same days with John Weir. The mind of the honest trader might no doubt have been filled with more fitting reflections at such a time; but it is impossible to doubt that it was from such escapes of natural character that the very happiest touches of both Shakspeare and Burns were derived.'

1 John Weir was the father of Sergeant Weir, whose name has obtained a place in history, in consequence of specially gallant achievements at Waterloo.