Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power, You e'er fhould be a Stot! Tho', when fome kind, connubial Dear -Your But-and-ben adorns, The like has been that you may wear A noble head of borns. And, in your lug, moft reverend J To hear you roar and rowte, Few men o' fenfe will doubt your claims To rank amang the Nowte. And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, Below a graffy hillock, Wi' juftice they may mark your head- ADDRESS ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.. O Prince! O chief of many throned Pow'rs, 16 That led th' embattl'd Seraphim to war MILTON. THOU! whatever title fuit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim an' footie, Glos'd under hatches, Spairges about the brunftane cootie, To fcaud poor wretches! HEAR me, auld Hangie, for a wee, An' let poor, damned bodies be; I'm fure fma' pleasure it can gie Ev'n to a deil, To fkelp an fcaud poor dogs like me, An' hear us fqueel! GREAT is thy pow'r, an' 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 fcaur. WHYLES, ranging like a roaring lion, For prey, ́a' holes an' corners tryin; Whyles, on the ftrong-wing'd Tempeft flyin, Tirlin the kirks; Whyles in the human bofom pryin, Unfeen thou lurks. I'VE I've heard my reverend Graunie fay, In lanely glens ye like to ftray; Or where auld, ruin'd Caftles, gray, Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, WHEN twilight did my Graunie fummon, To fay her pray'rs, douce, honeft woman! Aft yont the dyke fhe's heard your bummin, Wi' eerie drone; Or, rufflin, thro' the boortries comin, Wi' heavy groan. AE dreary, windy, winter night, The stars fhot down wi' sklentin light, Wi' you, myfel, I gat a fright, Ayont the lough; Ye, Ye, like a rash bufs, stood in fight Wi' waving fugh. THE cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each briftl'd hair ftood like a ftake, When wi' an' eldritch, ftoor quaick, quaick, Amang the springs, Awa ye fquatter'd like a drake, On whistling wings. LET warlocks grim, an' wither'd bags, They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags, Wi' wicked fpeed; And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, Owre howkit dead. THENCE, Countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; For, |