XIV.

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in,
And here's, for a conclusion,
To every New Light* mother's son,
From this time forth, Confusion:
If mair they deave us with their din
Or Patronage intrusion,

We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin,
We'll rin them aff in fusion

Like oil, some day.

THE CALF.

TO THE REV. MR

On his Text, MALACHI, ch. iv. ver. 2.

"And they shall go

"forth, and grow up, like CALVES of the stall."

RIGHT, Sir! your text I'll prove it true,
Though Heretics my laugh;

For instance; there's yoursel just now,
God knows, an unco Calf!

And should some Patron be so kind,

As bless you wi' a kirk,

I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find,

Ye're still as great a Stirk.

*New Light is a cant phrase in the West of Scotland, for those religious opinions which Dr Taylor of Norwich has defended so strenuously.

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

Forbid it, every heavenly Power,
You e'er should be a Stot!

Tho', when some 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, most reverend James, To hear you roar and rowte,

Few men o' sense will doubt your 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.'

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL..

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

MILTON.

THOU! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,

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,

E'en to a deil,

To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame;:
Far kend and 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 roarin lion, prey, a' holes an' corners tryin;

For

Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin,
Tirling the kirks;

Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,

Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend Graunie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or where auld-ruin'd castles, gray,
Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way,
Wi' eldritch croon.

When twilight did my Graunie summon, To say her prayers, douce, honest woman! Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin, Wi' ecrie drone;

Or, rustlin, 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-bush stood in sight,

Wi' waving sugh,

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake,
When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick—quaick-

Amang the springs,

Awa ye squatter'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 howkit 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' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen

As yell's the Bill,

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, On young Guidman, fond, keen, an' crouse; When the best wark-lume i' the house,

When thowes dissolve the snawy 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 traversing Spunkies Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is: The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys Delude his eyes,