Address To The Deil
address to the deil 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, a poor damned bodies be; i'm sure sma' pleasure it gie, ev'n to a deil, to skelp an' scaud ps like me, an' hear us squeel! great is thy pow'r an' great thy fame; far ken'd an' noted is thy name; an' tho' yon lowin' heuch's thy hame, thou travels far; an' faith! thou's her lag nor lame, nor blate, nor scaur. whiles, ranging like a roarin lion, for prey, a' holes and ers tryin; whiles, orong-wind'd tempest flyin, tirlin the kirks; whiles, in the human bosom pryin, uhou lurks. i've heard my rev'rend graunie say, in lanely glens ye like to stray; or where auld ruin'd castles grey nod to the moon, ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, wi' eldritch . when twilight did my graunie summon, to say her pray'rs, douse, ho woman! aft'yont the dyke she's heard you bummin, wi' eerie drone; or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees in, 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-buss, stood in sight, wi' wavin' sough. the cudgel in my nieve did shake, each brist'ld hair stood like a stake, when wi' an eldritch, stoor “quaick, quaick,” amang the springs, awa ye squatter'd like a drake, on whistlin' wings. let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, tell how wi' you, weed nags, they skim the muirs an' dizzy crags, wi' wicked speed; and in kirk-yards reheir leagues, owre howkit dead. thence tra wives, wi' toil and pain, may plunge an' pluhe kirn in vain; for oh! the yellow treasure's ta'en by wit' skill; an' dawtit, tint hawkie's gane as yell's the bill. thence mystiak great abuse on young guidmen, fond, keen an' crouse, when the best wark-lume i' the house, by trip 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 dire, and 'nighted trav'llers are allur'd to their destru. and aft your moss-traversin spunkies decoy the wight that late an' drunk is: the bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies 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 ye maun stop, or, strao tell! the you brither 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 bower; 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 rui'd a'. d'ye mind that day when in a bizz wi' reekit duds, ait gizz, ye did present your smoutie phiz 'maer 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 and botches did him gall, wi' bitter claw; an' lows'd his ill-tongu'd wicked scaul', was warst ava? but a' your doings to rehearse, your wily snares ain fierce, sin' that day michael did you pierce, down to this time, wad ding a lallan tounge, or erse, in prose or rhyme. an' now, auld cloots, i ken ye're thinkin, a certain bardie's rantin, drinkin, some luckless hour will send him linkin to your black pit; but faith! he'll turn a er jinkin, an' cheat you yet. but fare-you-weel, auld nickie-ben! o wad ye tak a thought an' men'! ye aiblins might—i dinna ken— stil hae a stake: i'm wae to think up' yon den, ev'n for your sake!