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Tho', when some kind connubial Dear
Your but-and-ben adorns,
A noble head of Horns.
And, in your lug, mot reverend -,
To hear you roar and rowte,
claims To rank amang the Nowte.
And when ye're number'd wi' the dead,
Below a grassy hillock,
• Here lies a famous Bullock !"
A D D R E S S.
O Prince! O chief of many throned Pow'rs,
Thou ! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim an' footie,
Clos'd under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretches!
Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
Ev'n to a deil,
An'hear us squeel !
Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ;
Thou travels far
; An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.
Whyles, ranging like a roaring 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.
reverend Graunie fay, In lanely glens ye like to ftray; Or where auld, ruind castles, gray,
Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way,
With eldritch croon,
When twilight did my Graunie summon, To say her pray'rs, douce, honest woman! Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin,
Wi' eerie drone; Or, ruftlin, 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-buss, stood in fight,
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 hagsg,
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, O! 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 Guidmen, fond keen, an' cruese; When the best wark-lume i' the house,
By cantrip wit, Is instant made no worth a louse,
Just at the bit.
When thowes diffolve the fnawy hoord,
By your direction,
To their destruction,
An'aft your moss-traverfing Spunkies Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is : The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies
Delude his eyes, Till in some miry flough he funk is;
Ne'er mair to rise.
When Mafons mytic word an' grip, In storms an' tempefts raise you up, Some cock or cat, your rage maun stop,
Or, ftrange to tell ! The youngest Brother, ye wad whip
Aff straught to h-11.
Lang syne in Eden's bonie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were pair’d, An' all the soul of love they shard,
The raptur'd hour, Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird,
In fhady 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,