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, By cantrip wit, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit. When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, An' float the jinglin 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 monkeys Delude his eyes, Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise. When 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, Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry sward, 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 bizz, Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz, Ye did present your smoutie phiz, 'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man of Uzz Your spitefu' joke? An' An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' brak him out o' house an' hall, While scabs an' botches did him gall, Wi' bitter claw, An' lows'd his ill tongu'd, wicked Scawl, But a' your doings to rehearse, Down to this time, Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin, Some luckless hour will send him linkin, Το your black pit; But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin, An' cheat you yet. But, * Vide MILTON, Book VI. But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben! Still hae a stake I'm wae to think upo' yon den, Ev'n for your sake! THE THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. An unco mournfu' Tale. As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, Wi' A neibor herd-callan, |