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,
Though Heretics may laugh;
For instance; there's yoursel just now,
God knows, an unco Calf!

And should some Patron be so kind,
As bless you wi' a kirk,

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
Shall ever be your lot,

Forbid it, ev'ry 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

ADDRESS

TO THE DEIL.

Oh Prince! Oh Chief of many throned Pow'rs,
That led the 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,

Closed 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,
Tirlin 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,
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 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