Kyle-Stewart I could braggèd wide,
For sic a pair.

Though now ye dow but hoyte and hobble,
An' wintle like a saumont coble,
That day ye was a jinker noble,

For heels an' win'!

An' ran them till they a' did wauble,
Far, far behin'.

When thou an' I were young and skeigh,
An' stable meals at fairs were dreigh,
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh,
An' tak the road!

Town's bodies ran, an stood abeigh,

An' ca't thee mad.

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow,
We took the road ay like a swallow:

At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow

For pith and speed;

But every tail thou pay't them hollow,
Whare'er thou gaed.

The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle,
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle,
An' gar't them whaizle:
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle

O' saugh or hazel.

Thou was a noble fittie lan',

As e'er in tug or tow was drawn!

Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun,

On guid March weather,
Hae turned sax rood beside our han',
For days thegither.

Thou never braindg't, an' fech't, an' fliskit,
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An' spread abreed thy well-filled briskit,
Wi' pith and power,

Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket,
An' slypet owre.

When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threatened labour back to keep,

I gied thy cog a wee bit heap

Aboon the timmer;

I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep

For that, or simmer.

In cart or car thou never reestit:

The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it;
Thou never lap, an' sten't an' breastit,
Then stood to blaw;

But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov't awa'.

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a';
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw;
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa,

That thou hast nurst:

They drew me thretteen pund an' twa,
The vera warst.

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,

An' wi' the weary warl' fought!

An' monie an anxious day I thought

We wad be beat!

Yet here to crazy age we're brought,
Wi' something yet.

And think na, my auld, trusty servan',
Than now perhaps thou's less deservin',
An' thy auld days may end in starvin',
For my last fou,

A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane
Laid by for you.

We've worn to crazy years thegither;
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither;
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether

To some hained rig,

Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,
Wi' sma' fatigue.

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL

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

Closed under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie,

To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damnèd 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 power, an' great thy fame;
Far kend and noted is thy name;

An' though 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,
For prey a' holes an' corners tryin';
Whyles on the strong-winged tempest flyin',
Tirlin' 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 ruined castles, gray,

Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wanderer's way
Wi' eldritch croon.

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

Or, rustlin', through the boortrees 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 bristled hair stood like a stake,
When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick-quaick-

Amang the springs

Away ye squattered, like a drake,

On whistling wings.

Let warlocks grim, an' withered hags,
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs, an' dizzy crags,
Wi' wicked speed;

And in kirkyards 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 ta'en

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 jingling icy-board,

Then water-kelpies haunt the foord

By your direction,

An' 'nighted travellers are allured

To their destruction.

An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is: The bleezing, curst, mischievous monkeys Delude his eyes,

Till in some miry slough he sunk is,

Ne'er mair to rise.