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Tho', when some kind connubial Dear

Your but-and-ben adorns,
The like has been that you may wear

A noble head of Horns.

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And, in your lug, mot reverend -,

To hear you roar and rowte,
Few men o' sense will doubt


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 !"


A D D R E S S.


THE ..



O Prince! O chief of many throned Pow'rs,
That led thembattl'd Seraphim to war



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,
An' let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,

Ev'n to a deil,
To kelp 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 lowin heugh's thy hame,

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.

I've heard


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,
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs an' dizzy cragsg.

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,
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-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,

'Maist ruin'da'.

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