Lapas attēli



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,

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 doubtna, Sir, but then we'll find,

Ye're still as great a Stirk..
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!'


O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs,
That led th’ embattled Seraphim to war.-


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


wretches !

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 and 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,

Tirling the kirks;
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,

Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend Grannie 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 twilight did my Grannie summon

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 bow 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 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,
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 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 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 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,

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 bizz,
Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz,

'Mang better fo'k, An' sklented on the man of Uzz

Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i’ your thrall,
An' brak him out o' house an' hall,
While scabs and 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,
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.

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