Awa ye fquatter'd like a drake, On whistling wings. Let Warlocks grim, an' wither'd Hags, Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags, They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags, Wi' wicked speed; And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, Owre howcket dead. Thence, countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; For Oh! the yellow treasure's taen By witching skill; An' dawtet, twal-pint Hawkie's gane As yell's the Bill. Thence, myftic knots mak great abuse, On Young-Guidmen, fond, keen, an' croofe; When the best wark-lume i' the house, By cantraip wit, Is inftant made no worth a louse Juft at the bit. When thowes diffolve the fnawy hoord, An' float the jinglan icy boord, Then, Water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction, An' nighted Trav'llers are allur'd To their deftruction. An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is: The bleezan, curft, mifchievous monkies Delude his eyes, Till in fome miry flough he funk is, Ne'er mair to rife. When MASONS' mystic 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-ll. Lang fyne 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 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'!) An' gied the infant warld a shog, 'Maift ruin'd a'. D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, Wi' reeket duds, an' reeftet gizz, Ye did prefent your smoutie phiz, 'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man of Uzz, Your fpitefu' joke? An how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' brak him out o' houfe an' hal', While fcabs an' botches did him gall, Wi' bitter claw, An' lowf'd his ill-tongu'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 Erse, In Profe or Rhyme. An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkan, A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin, Some luckless hour will fend him linkan, To your black pit ; But faith! he'll turn a corner jinkan, 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— Still hae a take I'm wae to think upo' yon den, THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS O F POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE, AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. A S MAILIE, an' her lambs thegither, Was ae day nibbling on the tether, Upon her cloot fhe coost a hitch, * A neibor herd-callan. |