grow up, like CALVES of the ftall.'

RIGHT,

IGHT, Sir! your text I'll prove it true

Tho' Heretics may laugh ;

For inftance, there's yourfel juft now,

God knows, an unco Calf!

And fhould fome Patron be so kind,

As blefs you wi' a kirk,

I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find,
Ye're ftill as great a Stirk !

But if the Lover's raptur'd hour,
Shall ever be your lot,

Forbid it, ev'ry heav'nly Power,

You e'er should be a Stot!

Tho', when fome 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, mot reverend J,
To hear you roar and rowte,

Few men o' fenfe will doubt your claims To rank amang the Nowte.

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, Below a graffy hillock,

Wi' justice they may mark your head— Here lies a famous Bullock!"

ADDR ES S

T.O THE..

DE I L.

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

MILTON.

Thou! whatever title fuit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim an' footie,

Clos'd under hatches,

Spairges about the brunftane cootie,

To fcaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damned bodies be;
I'm fure fma' pleasure it can gie,

Ev'n to a deil,

To skelp an' fcaud poor dogs like me,

An' hear us fqueel!

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.

For

Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion, prey, a' holes an' corners tryin; Whyles, on the ftrong-wing'd Tempest flyin,

Tirlin' the kirks;

Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,

Unfeen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend Graunie say,
In lanely glens ye like to ftray;
Or where auld, ruin'd caftles, gray,

Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way,

With eldritch croon.

When twilight did my Graunie fummon, To fay her pray'rs, douce, honeft woman! the dyke fhe's heard you bummin,

Aft

yont

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, myfel, I gat a fright,

Ayont the lough;

Ye, like a rafh-bufs, ftood in fight,

Wi' waving fugh.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each briftl'd hair ftood like a stake,

When wi' an eldritch, floor quaick, quaick,

Amang the fprings,

Awa ye fquatter'd like a drake,

On whistling wings.

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd bags,, Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags,

They kim 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, O! the yellow treasure's taen

By witching skill;

An' dawtit', twal-pint Hawkie's gaen

As yell's the Bill,

Thence, myftic knots mak great abuse, On young Guidmen, fond keen, an' cruefe; When the best wark-lume i' the house,

By cantrip wit,

Is inftant made no worth a louse,

Juft 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 deftruction.