O Prince, O chief of many throned pow’rs,
That led th’ 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,
Clos’d under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretches!
Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An’ let poor, damned bodies bee;
I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie,
Ev’n 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 an’ noted is thy name;
An’ tho’ yon lowan heugh’s thy hame,
Thou travels far;
An’ faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.
Whyles, ranging like a roaran lion,
For prey, a’ holes an’ corners tryin;
Whyles, on the strong-wing’d tempest flyin,
Tirlan the kirks;
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,
Unseen thou lurks.
I’ve heard my rev’rend 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 twilight did my Graunie summon,
To say her prayers, douse, honest woman!
Aft ‘yont the dyke she’s heard you bumman,
Wi’ eerie drone;
Or, rustling, thro’ the boortries coman,
Wi’ heavy groan.
Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
The stars shot down wi’ sklentan light,
Wi’ you, myself, I gat a fright,
Ayont the lough;
Ye, like a rass-buss, 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, stoor 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 howcket 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’ dawtet, twal-pint Hawkie’s gane
As yell’s the bill.
Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse,
On Young-Guidmen, fond, keen an’ croose;
When the best wark-lume i’ the house,
By cantraip wit,
Is instant made no worth a louse,
Just at the bit.
When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
An’ float the jinglan 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 bleezan, curst, mischievous monkies
Delude his eyes,
Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne’er mair to rise.
When Mason’s 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,
When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d,
An’ all 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, snick-drawing dog!
Ye cam 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’ reeket duds, an’ reestet gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz,
’Mang better folk,
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’ hal’,
While scabs an’ botches did him gall,
Wi’ bitter claw,
An’ lows’d his ill-tongu’d, wicked scrawl
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,
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,
In Prose or Rhyme.
An’ now, auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkan,
A certain Bardie’s rantin, drinkin,
Some luckless hour will send him linkan,
To your black pit;
But faith! he’ll turn a corner jinkan,
An’ cheat you yet.
But fare-you-weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an’ men’!
Ye aiblens might – I dinna ken –
Still hae a stake –
I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,
Ev’n for your sake!