THE CALF. TO THE REV. MR. On his Text, Malachi, iv. 2. "And they shall go forth, and grow up, like CALVES of the stall." RIGHT, Sir! your text I'll prove it true, And should some Patron be so kind, I doubtna, Sir, but then we'll find, But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power, Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, Your but-and-ben adorns, The like has been that you may wear And in your lug, most reverend James, Few men o' sense will doubt your To rank amang the nowte. claims And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, Wi' justice they may mark your head 'Here lies a famous Bullock!' ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, Milton. O THOU! whatever title suit thee, Closed under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches! Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me, Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame; An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion, Tirling the kirks; Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, Unseen thou lurks. I've heard my reverend Grannie say, Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, When twilight did my Grannie summon Or, rustlin, thro' the boortries comin, Ae dreary, windy, winter night, Ayont the lough; Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, Wi' waving sugh. The cudgel in my nieve did shake, 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, And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, By witching skill; An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen As yell's the Bill. Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit. When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 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 Till in some miry slough he sunk is, When Masons' mystic word an' grip, The youngest Brother ye wad whip Aff straught to hell! Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, When youthfu' loyers first were pair'd, An' a' the soul of love they shar'd, The raptur'd hour, Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird, Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog! 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, An' sklented on the man of Uzz Your spitefu' joke? An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, 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, Wag ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, In prose or rhyme. |