When twilight did my Graunie summon, To say her prayers, douce, honest woman! Or, rustlin, thro' the boortries comin, 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-buss, stood in sight, 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, And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, Thence 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, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit. 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 monkies Delude his eyes, Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise. When When Masons' mystic word an' grip, In storms an' tempests raise you up, Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, The youngest youngest Brother ye Or, strange to tell! Aff straught to hell! Lang syne, 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 swaird, In shady bow'r: Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog! Ye came to Paradise incog, An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, (Black be your fa!) An' gied the infant warld a shog, 'Maist ruin'd a'. D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz, Ye did present your smoutie phiz, 'Mang better fo'k, An' sklented on the man of Uzz Your spitefu' joke? An' An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' brak him out o' house an' hall, While scabs an' blotches did him gall, Wi' bitter claw, An' lows'd his ill tongu'd, wicked Scawl, Was warst ava? But a' your doings to rehearse, Down to this time, Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, In prose or rhyme. An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin, Some luckless hour will send him linkin, To your black pit; But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin, An' cheat you yet. * Vide MILTON, Book vi. But, |