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Forbid it, ev'ry 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 borns.
Arid, in your lug, most reverend J
To hear you roar and rowte,
To rank amang the Nowte.
And when ye're number'd wi' the dead,
Below a grafly hillock,
Here lies a famous Bullock !'
O Prince ! O chief of many tbroned Pow'rs,
Thou! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim an’ footie,
Clos'd under hatches,
Spairges about the brunftane cootie,
To scaud poor wretches!
HEAR me, auld Hangie, for a wee, An' let poor, damned bodies be;
I'm fure-sma' pleasure it can gie
Ev'n to a deil,
To kelp an! scaud poor dogs likc me,
An' hear us fqueel !
GREAT is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame
Anfaith thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.
WHYLES, ranging like a roaring lion,
Tirlin the kirks;
I've heard my reverend Graunie fay,
WHEN twilight did my Graunie summon,
Wi' eerie drone;
Or, ruftlin, thro' the boortries coming
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 rasha buss, stood in fighta
Wi' waving fugh.
THE cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, When wi' an' eldritch, stoor quaick, quaick,
Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter'd like a drake,
On whistling wings.
LET warlocks grim, an' wither'd bags, Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags, They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags,
Wi' wicked speed ;
THENCE, countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain ;