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TO THE REV. MR.
On his Text, Malachi, ch. iv. ver. 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!
And should some Patron be so kind,
As bless you wi' a kirk,
Ye're still as great a Stirk.
But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour
Shall ever be your lot,
You e'er should be a Stot!
Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear,
Your out-and-ben adorns,
A noble head of horns.
And in your lug, most reverend James,
To hear you roar and rowte,
To rank amang the nowte.
And when ye're number'd wi' the dead,
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, Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretches!
Hear me, old Hangie, for a wee,
E'en to a deil,
An' bear us squeel!
Great is thy pow'r, and great thy fame;
Thou travels far ;
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,
Nod to the moon,
Wi' eldritch croon.
When twilight did me Grannie 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,
Ayont the lough ;
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 hage, 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 contra 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 snaivy hoord,
By your direction,
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 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 Brother ye wad whip
Aff straught to hell!
Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard,
The raptur'd hour, Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird,
In shady bow'r: Then you, ye auld, snic-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 biziz, Wi’ reekit duds an' reestit gizz, Ye did present your smoutie phiz,
'Mang better fo'k, An' sklented on the man of l'z:
Your spitefu' joke?
An' how ye gat him i’ your thrall, An' brak bim 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,
Down to this time,
In prose or rhyme.
* Vide Milton, Book VI. Vol. XXXVIII. I