XIV. Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin, 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, For instance; there's yoursel just now, 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 Forbid it, every heavenly Power, Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, The like has been that you may wear 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, 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, E'en to a deil, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame;: An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame, 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, Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, Unseen thou lurks. I've heard my reverend Graunie say, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, 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, Ayont the lough; Ye, like a rash-bush stood in sight, Wi' waving sugh, The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake, On whistling wings, Let Warlocks grim, an' wither'd' hags, And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, 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, |