But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour
Shall ever be your lot,

Forbid it, every heavenly Power,
You e'er should be a Stot !

Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear,
Your but-and-ben adorns,

The like has been that you may wear
A noble head of horns.

And in your lug, most reverend James,
To hear you roar and rowte,

Few men o' sense will doubt your claims
To rank amang the nowte.

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead,
Below a grassy hillock,

Wi' justice they may mark your head-
'Here lies a famous Bullock !'

ADDRESS

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,

To scaud poor wretches!

Hear

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

E'en 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 kend 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 roarin lion,
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin;
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin,
Tirling the kirks;

Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,

Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend Graunie 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

When twilight did my Graunie summon,
Το 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 sugh.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake,

When wi' an eldritch stour, 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

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 Guidman, 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'llers 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