But, if the lover's raptur'd hour
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! Oh chief of many throned pow'rs, That led the embattled Seraphim to war. -Milton.

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, anld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damned bodies be:
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
Een 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 ken'd 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,
For prey, a' holes and corners tryin';.
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin',
Tirlin' the kirks;

Whyles, in the human bosom pryin',
Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend grannie say,
In lanely glens you like to stray;
Or where anld ruin'd castles gray,
Nod to the moon,

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

When twilight did my grannie summon, To say her prayers, douce, honest woman! Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin', Wi' eerie 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 sough.

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,

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain,
May plunge and plunge the kirn in vain:
For, oh! the yellow treasure's ta'en
By witching skill:

An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen
As yeld's the bill.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse,
On young guidman, 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 allured
To their destruction.

An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies Decoy the wight that late and drunk is; The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys Delude his eyes,

Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne'er mair to rise.

When masons' mystic word an' grip,
In storm 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 bonnie yard,
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,
An' all the soul of love they shared,
The raptured hour,

Sweet on the fragrant flowery swaird
In shady bower:

Then you, ye auld, snec-drawing dog!
Ye came to Paradise incog,
An' played on man a cursed brogue,
(Black be your fa'!)

An' gied the infant world a shog,
'Maist ruined a'."

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smootie phiz
'Mang better folk,

An' sklented on the man of Uz
Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,
An' brak him out o' house an' hall,
While scabs and blotches did him gall,
Wi' bitter claw,
An' lowsed his ill tongued wicked scawl,
Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce.
Sin' that day Michael40 did you pierce,
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',
And cheat you yet.

But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought and men'!
Ye aiblius might-I dinną ken-
Still hae a stake
I'm wae to think upon yon den,
Even for your sake!

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 warsled in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughocil he came doytin by.

Wi' glowrin' een, and lifted han's,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's:
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But wae's my heart! he could no mend it!
He gaped wide, but naething spak!
At length poor Mailie silence brak.

'O thou, whose lamentable face
Appears to m urn my waefu' case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An' bear them to my Master dear.

'Tell him, if e'er again he keep
As muckle gear as buy a sheep,
O, bid him never tie them mair
Wi' wicked strings of hemp or hair!
But ca' them out to park or hill,
An' let them wander at their will:
So may his flock increase, an' grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'!

'Tell him, he was a master kin',
An' aye guid to me an' mine:
An' now my dying charge I gie him,
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him.

'O bid him save their harmless lives,
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives!
But gie them guid cow milk their fill,
Till they be fit to fend themsel';
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn,
Wi' teats o hay an' rips o' corn.

An' may they never learn the gates,
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets!
To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal,
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail.
So may they, like their great forbears,
For mony a year come thro' the shears:
So wives will gie them bits o' bread,

An' bairns greet for them when they're dead

My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, O bid him breed him up wi' care!

An' if he live to be a beast,

To pit some havins in his breast!
An' warn him, what I winna name,
To stay content with yowes at hame;
An' no to rm an' wear his cloots,
Like ither menseless, graceless, brutes.

'An' neist my yowie, silly thing,
Guid keep thee from a tether string!
O, may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi' only blastit, moorland toop:
But aye keep mind to moop an' mell
Wi' sheep o credit like thysel'!

'An' now, my bairns, wi' my last breath,
I lea'e my blessing wi' you baith;
An' when you think upo' your mither,
Mind to be kin' to ane anither.

Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail
To tell my master a' my tale;
An' bid him burn this cursed tether,

An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blether
This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head,
And closed her een amang the dead.

POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY.
LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose,
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose;
Our bardie's fate is at a close,
Past a' remead;

The last sad cape-stane o' his woes;
Poor Mailie's dead!

It's no' the loss o' warl's gear
That could sae bitter draw the tear,
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear
The mourning weed:

He's lost a friend and neebour dear,
In Mailie dead.

Thro' a' the town she trotted by him! A lang half-mile she could descry him; Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, She ran wi' speed;

A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him,
Than Mailie dead.

I wat she was a sheep o' sense,
An' could behave hersel' wi' mense;
I'll say't she never brak a fence,
Thro' thievish greed.

Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence
Sin' Mailie's dead.

Or, if he wanders up the howe,
Her living image in her yowe,
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe,
For bits o' bread;

An' down the briny pearls rowe
For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o' moorland tips,
Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips:
For her forbears were brought in ships
Frae yont the Tweed!

A bonnier flesh ne'er cross'd the clips
Than Mailie dead.

Wae worth the man who first did shape That vile, wanchancie thing-a rape! Itmaks guid fellows grin an' gape,

Wi' chokin' dread;

An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape,
For Mailie dead.

O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon!
An' wha on Ayr your chaunters tune!
Come, join the melancholious croon
O' Robin's reed!

His heart will never get aboon
His Mailie dead.

TO JAMES SMITH.

'Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul! Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society! I owe thee much!" Blair.

DEAR SMITH, the sleest, paukie thief, That e'er attempted stealth or rief, Ye surely has some warlock-breef Owre human hearts; For never a bosom yet was prief Against your arts.

For me, I swear by sun an' moon, And every star that blinks aboon, Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon, Just gaun to see you: And every ither pair that's done, Mair ta'en I'm wi' you.

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, To mak amends for scrimpit stature, She's turn'd you aff, a human creature On her first plan,

And in her freaks, on every feature,
She's wrote, the Man.

Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, My barmie noddle's working prime, My fancy yerkit up sublime

Wi' hasty summon;

Hae ye a leisure moment's time

To hear what's comin'?

Some rhyme a neebour's name to lash; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash; Some rhyme to court the countra clash, An' raise a din;

For me, an aim I never fash:

I rhyme for fun.

The star that rules my luckess lot,
Has fated me the russet coat,
An' damned my fortune to the groat:
But in requit,

Has bless'd me wi' a random shot
O countra wit.

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent,
To try my fate in guid black prent;
But still the mair I'm that way bent,
Something cries Hoolie!
I red you, honest man, tak tent;
Ye'll shaw your folly.

'There's ither poets, much your betters, Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, Hae thought they had ensured their debtors

A' future ages;

Now moths deform in shapeless tatters, Their unknown pages.'

Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, To garland my poetic brows!

Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs Are whistling thrang,

An' teach the lanely heights an' lowes My rustic sang.

I'll wander on, with tentless heed
How never-halting moments speed,
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread;
Then, all unknown,

I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead,
Forgot and gone!

But why o' death begin a tale?
Just now we're living, sound an' hale,
Then top and maintop crowd the sail,
Heave care o'er side!

And large, before enjoyment's gale,
Let's tak' the tide.

This life, sae far's I understand,
Is a' enchanted fairy land,

Where pleasure is the magic wand,
That, wielded right,

Make hours like minutes, hand in hand,
Dance by fu' light.

The magic-wand then let us wield: For, ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd, See crazy, weary, joyless eild,

Wi' wrinkled face,

Comes hostin', hirplin', owre the field,

Wi' creepin' pace.

Unmindful that the thorn is near,
Amang the leaves:
And though the puny wound appear,
Shart while it grieves.

Some, lucky, find a flowery spot,
For which they never toiled nor swat,
They drink the sweet and eat the fat,'
But care or pain;

And, haply, eye the barren hut
With high disdain.

With steady aim, some Fortune chase;
Keen Hope does every sinew brace:
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race,
And seize the prey:

Then cannie, in some cozie place,
They close the day.

An' others, like your humble servan', Poor wights! nae rules, or roads observin'; To right or left, eternal swervin',

They zig-zag on;

Till curst wi' age, obscure an' starvin','
They aften groan.

Alas! what bitter toil an' strainin-
But truce with peevish poor complaining!
Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning?
E'en let her gang!

Beneath what light she has remaining,
Let's sing our sang.

My pen I here fling to the door,

And kneel, Ye Pow'rs!' and warm implore,
Tho' I should wander Terra o'er,
In all her climes,

Grant me but this, I ask no more,
Aye rowth o' rhymes.

'Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds,
Till icicles hing frae their beards:
Gie fine braw cloes to fine life-guards,
An' maids of honour!
whisky gie to cairds,
Until they sconner.

An' yill an'

'A title, Dempster42 merits it;
A garter gie to Willie Pitt;
Gie wealth to some be-ledger'd cit,
In cent. per cent.

But give me real, and sterling wit,
An' I'm content.

While ye are pleased to keep me hale,
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal,
Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail,
Wi' cheerfu' face,

As lang's the Muses dinna fail'
To say the grace.'

An' anxious e'e I never throws
Behint my lug, or by my nose;
I jouk beneath misfortune's blows,
As well's I may:

Sworn foe to sorrow, care, an' prose,
In rhyme away.

'O ye douse folk, tha live by rule,
Grave, tideless-blooded calm and cool,
Compar'd wi' you-O fo! fool! fool!
How much unlike!

Your hearts are just a standing pool,
Your lives, a dyke!

Nae hair-brain'd sentimental traces
In your unletter'd nameless faces!
In drioso trills and graces

Ye never stray,

But gravissimo, soleum basses

Ye hum away.

Yo are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise, Nae ferly tho' ye do despise

The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys,
The rattlin' squad:

I see you upward cast your eyes

Ye ken the road.