THE CALF. 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, And should some Patron be so kind, I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find, Ye're still as great a Stirk. But, But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power, Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, The like has been that you may wear And in your lug, most reverend James, Few men o' sense will doubt your claims And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, Wi' justice they may mark your head- ADDRESS ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. Oh Prince! Oh 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 Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, E'en to a deil, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame; Thou travels far; An', faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion, Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, Unseen thou lurks. I've heard my reverend Graunie say, Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way. Wi' eldritch croon. When When twilight did my Graunie 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, 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, And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, Thence |