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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,
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims

To rank amang the Nowte.

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead,

Below a grafly hillock,
Wi' justice they may mark your head-

Here lies a famous Bullock !'

ADDRESS

ADDRESS

TO THE

DEI L.,

O Prince ! O chief of many tbroned Pow'rs,
That led th' embattld Seraphim to war-

MILTON.

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
Far kend and noted is thy name;
An' tho'yon Jowin heugh's thy hame,

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Anfaith thou's neither lag nor lame,

Nor blate nor scaur.

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WHYLES, ranging like a roaring lion,
For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin ;
Whyles, on the strong-wing'd Tempest flyin,

Tirlin the kirks;

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I've heard my reverend Graunie fay,
In lanely glens y'e like to stray ;
Or where auld, ruin's Castles, gray,

11

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WHEN twilight did my Graunie summon,
To say her pray’rs, douce, honest woman !
Aft yont the dyke she's heard your bumming

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,

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 ;

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THENCE, countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain ;

For,

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