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And perislı’d mony a bonnie boat,
But here my muse her wing maun cour ; Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; To sing how Nannie lap and flang (A souple jade she was, and strang), And how Tam stood, like ane bewitchi'd, And thought his very e’en enrich’d; Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' miglit and main : Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a’ thegither, And roars out, “Weel done, Cutty-sark!” And in an instant all was dark; And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke; As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop ! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd, When, “ Catch the thief !” resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow.
Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou 'll get thy fairin! In hell they 'll roast thee like a herrin! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane of the brig; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross. But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake! For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle ; But little wist she Maggie's mettle Ae spring brought off her master hale, But left behind her ain gray tail :
The car in caught her hy the rump,
Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.
6: O Prince! O Chief of many throned pow'rs, That led th'embattled Seraphim to war.”
THOU! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Closed under hatches,
To scaud poor wretches.
Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
Ev'n to a deil,
An' hear us squeel!
Great is thy pow'r, an' great thiy fame;
Thou travels far;
Nor blate nor scaur.
Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion,
Tirlin the kirks;
Unseen thou lurks.
I've heard my reverend Graunie say,
Nod to the moon,
Wi' eldritch croon.
When twilight did my Graunie summon,
say her pray’rs, douce, honest woman ! Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin,
Wi' eerie drone;
Wi' heavy groan.
Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
Ayont the lough;
Wi' waving sugh.
The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Amang the springs,
On whistling wings.
Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags,
Wi' wicked speed;