Till skelpt a shot; — they're aff a throwther, To save their skin. But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, He has na thought but how to kill Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him; His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him Sages their solemn een may steek, An' physically causes seek, In clime an' season; But tell me Whiskey's name in Greek, Scotland, my auld respected mither! (Freedom an' Whiskey gang thegither! ADDRESS TO THE DEIL O Prince! O Chief of many-throned Pow'rs, MILTON O THOU! whatever title suit thee, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame, An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Whyles, ranging like a roarin' lion, Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', Unseen thou lurks I've heard my reverend Graunie say, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, When twilight did my Graunie summon, Or, rustlin', thro' the boortries comin', Ae dreary, windy, winter night, The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, Ayont the lough; Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake, On whistling wings. Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, Is instant made no worth a louse, When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, An' 'nighted trav'llers are allur'd An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies Till in some miry slough he sunk is, When Mason's mystic word an' grip, The youngest brother ye wad whip Aff straught to h-ll Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard, Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird, Then you, ye auld, snick-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, An' sklented on the Man of Uz An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked Scawl, But a' your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce, Vide Milton. Book VI. |