An' aft your mofs-traverfing Spunkies Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is: The bleezin, curft, mifchievous monkies Delude his eyes,

Till in fome miry flough he funk is;

Ne'er mair to rise.

When Mafons myftic word an' grip, In ftorms an' tempests raise you up, Some cock or cat, your rage maun stop,

Or, ftrange to tell!

The youngest Brother, ye wad whip

Aff ftraught to h-II.

Lang fyne in Eden's bonie yard, When youthfu' lovers firft were pair'd,

An' all the foul of love they shar`d,

The raptur'd hour,

Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry fwaird,

In fhady bow'r.

Then you, ye auld, fnick drawing dog!

Ye cam to Paradise incog,

An' play'd on man a curfed brogue,

(Black be your fa'!)

D'ye mind that day when in a bizz, Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz,

Ye did present your smoutie phiz,

?Mang better folk,

An' sklented on the man of Uzz

Your spitefu' joke?

An' how you gat him i' your thrall, An' brak him out o' house and hal', While scabs an' botches did him gall,

Wi' bitter claw,

And lows'd his ill-tongue'd, wicked Scawl,

Was warft ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse,

Your wily fnares an' fechtin fierce,

Sin' that day Michael did you pierce,

Down to this time,

Wad 'ding a Lallan tongue or Erfe,

In profe or rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin,

A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin,

Some lucklefs hour will fend him linkin

To your black pit;

But faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin,

An' cheat you yet.

Vide MILTON, Book VI.

But, fare

ye weel, auld Nickie-ben!

O wad ye tak a thought an' men'!

Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken

Still hae a flake

I'm wae to think upo' yon den,

Ev'n for

your

fake?

THE

DEATH AND D'YING WORDS

OF

POOR MAILIE,

THE AUTHOR's ONLY PET YOWE.

As

An Unco Mournfu' Tale.

AS Mailie, an her lambs thegither,
Was ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot fhe cooft a hitch,
An' owre fhe warfl'd in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc* he cam doytin by.

Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted han's,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's;
He faw her days were near hand ended,
But, waes my heart! he could na mend it?
He gaped wide, but naething fpak,

At length poor Mailie filence brak :

O thou, whase lamentable face Appears to mourn my woefu' cafe!

Neibor herd-callan.

My dying words attentive hear,
An' bear them to my mafter dear.

• Tell him, if e'er again he keep As muckle gear as buy a sheep, O, bid him never tie them mair Wi' wicked ftrings o' hemp or hair! But ca' them out to park or hill, An' let them wander at their will: So may his flock increafe, an' grow To scores o' Lambs and packs of woo'!

• Tell him, he was a Master kin', An' ay was guid to me an mine; An' now my dying charge, I gie him, My helpless lambs, I trust them wi' him.

O, bid him fave their harmless lives, Frae dogs an' tods, an' butcher's knives! But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, Till they be fit to fend themfel; An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, Wi' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn.

An' may they never learn the gaets

Of ither vile, wanreftfu' pets!
To flink thro' flaps, an' reave an' steal,
At ftacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail.
So may they, like their great forbears,
For monie a year come thro' the sheers &