ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.

O Prince! O Chief of many-throned Pow'rs,
That led th' embattled 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 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 kenn'd 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 and corners tryin';
Whiles 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 you 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 twilight did my Graunie summon,
To 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 sough,

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 and dizzy crags,
Wi' wicked speed;

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

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 guidmen, for.d, 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,
And float the jingling 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 monkies
Delude his eyes,

Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne'er mair to rise.

When Mason's 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 brother ye wad whip

Aff straught to h-ll

Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard,
When youthfu' lovers first were pr❜d,
An' a' the saul of love they shard
The raptur'd hour;

Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird,
In shady bow'r:

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog
Ye came 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'.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz,

Ye did present your smoutie phiz

'Mang better folk,

An' sklented on the Man of Uz

Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,
An' brak him out o' house an' hall,
While scabs an' blotches did him gall,
Wi' bitter claw,

An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked Scawl,
Was warst ava?

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

Vide Milton, Book VI.

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

An' now, auld Cloots, 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' your den,
Ev'n for your sake'

h%+ ** {{DATབ་མ'ར, -""...

ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRI
NATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND,

COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM.

HEAR! land o' cakes, and brither Scots.

Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's,

If there's a hole in a' your coats,
I rede ye tent it:

A chiel's amang you taking notes,

And, faith, he'll prent it.

If in your bounds ye chance to ight,
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight,