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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,

Though Heretics may laugh;
For instance; there's yoursel just now,

God knows, an unco Calf!

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.

But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour

Shall ever be your lot,
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power,

You e'er should be a Stot!

Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear,

Your out-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 !!!

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O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs,
That led the' embattled Seraphim to war.


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, old Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,

E'en to a deil,
To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me,

An' bear us squeel!

Great is thy pow'r, and great thy fame;
Far kend 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 an' corners tryin; Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin,

Tirling 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-ruin’d castles, gray,

Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way,

Wi' eldritch croon.

When twilight did me 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 sugh.

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 hage, Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags, They skim the muirs, an' dizzy crags,

Wi' wicked speed ; And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,

Owre howkit dead.

Thence contra 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,

By cantrip wit, Is instant made no worth a louse,

Just at the bit.

When thowes dissolve the snaivy 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 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 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 biziz, Wi’ reekit duds an' reestit gizz, Ye did present your smoutie phiz,

'Mang better fo'k, An' sklented on the man of l'z:

Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i’ your thrall, An' brak bim 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,
Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce,
Sin' that day Michael* did you pierce,

Down to this time,
Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse,

In prose or rhyme.

* Vide Milton, Book VI. Vol. XXXVIII. I

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