Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile!

Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,

A virtuous populace may rise the while,

And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd isle.

O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide,

That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart,
Who dar'd 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 !)
O never, never Scotia's realm desert ;
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard

In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

[This poem was composed near the close of 1785. Lockhart has well said -"The Cottar's Saturday Night' is perhaps, of all Burns' pieces, the one whose exclusion from the collection, were such things possible now-a-days, would be most injurious, if not to the genius, at least to the character of the man."

The original MS., used by the printer of the Kilmarnock edition of his poems, is now at Irvine, carefully preserved by the Burns' Club there, along with several other manuscripts.]

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.

"O Prince! O chief of many throned pow'rs
That led th' embattl'd seraphim to war—"
MILTON.

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, t

* scatters.

To scaud

poor wretches!

† foot-pail.

Hear me, auld "Hangie," for a wee,
An' let poor damnèd bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
Ev'n to a deil,

To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow'r an' great thy fame;
Far kenn'd an' noted is thy name ;
An' tho' yon lowin heuch's* thy hame,
Thou travels far;

An' faith! thou's neither lag + nor lame,
Nor blate, nor scaur.§

Whyles, rangin like a roarin 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 rev'rend grannie say,
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.

When twilight did my grannie 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 tt comin,

Wi' heavy groan.

* pit or hollow. I unroofing.

t slow. ¶hideous.

+ bashful. ** frightful.

§ to be scared.

tt elder-trees.

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' wavin sough.t

The cudgel in my neive ‡ 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 whistlin 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 howket || dead.

Thence, countra wives, wi' toil an' pain,
May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain ;
For oh! the yellow treasure's ta'en

By witchin skill;

An' dawtet, T twal-pint 'hawkie's' ** gane

As yell's the bill.tt

Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse
On young guidmen, fond, keen an' croose;
When the best wark-lume i' the house,

By cantraip ‡‡ wit,

Is instant made no worth a louse,

hoord,

When thowes dissolve the snawy
An' float the jinglin icy boord,
Then, water-kelpies haunt the foord,

By your direction,

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
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 "brither"

ye wad whip

Aff straught to hell.

Lang syne in Eden's bonie 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 swaird,

In shady bow'r;

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing * dog!

Ye cam 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'.

"

* who draws the bolt stealthily.

† trick.

startling shake.

D'ye mind that day when in a bizz *
Wi' reeket duds,† an' reestet gizz,‡
Ye did present your smootie phiz §

'Mang better folk,

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 an' botches did him gall,

Wi' bitter claw;

An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd wicked scaull-¶

Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse,

Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce,
Sin' that day Michael1 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!