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 Guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse;
When the best wark-lume i' the house,

By cantrip wit,

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 monkeys 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, Or, strange to tell!

The youngest Brother ye wad whip

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 sward,
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 folk,

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' botches did him gall,

Wi' bitter claw,

An' lows'd his ill tongu'd, wicked Scawl,
Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce,
Sin' that day Michael* did you pierce,

Down to this time,

Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin,

Some luckless hour will send him linkin,

Το your black pit;

But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin,

An' cheat you yet.

But,

* Vide MILTON, Book VI.

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an' men'!
Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken-

Still hae a stake

I'm wae to think upo' yon den,

Ev'n for your sake!

THE

THE

DEATH AND DYING WORDS

OF

POOR MAILIE,

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE.

An unco mournfu' Tale.

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

Wi'

A neibor herd-callan,