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For, Oh! the yellow treasure's taen

By witching fkill;

An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen

As yell's the Bill.

THENCE, myftic knots mak great abufe

On young Guidmen, fond, keen, an' croufe; When the beft wark-lume i' the houfe,

By cantrip wit,

Is inftant made no worth a louse,

Juft at the bit.

WHEN thowes diffolve the fnawy hoord,

An' float the jinglin icy-boord,

Then, Water-kelpies haunt the foord,

By your direction,

An' nighted Trav'llers are allur'd

To their deftru&ion.

AN

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AN' aft your mofs-traverfing Spunkies
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is:
The bleezin, curft, mifchievous monkies
Delude his eyes,

Till in fome miry flough he funk is,

Ne'er mair to rife.

WHEN Masons myftic word an' grip,

In ftorms an' tempefts raise you up,

Some cock or cat your rage maun ftop,

Or, ftrange to tell!

The youngest Brother ye wad whip

Aff ftraught to hell.

LANG fyne, in Eden's bonie yard,

When youthfu' lovers firft were pair'd,

An' all the Soul of love they fhar'd,

The raptur'd hour,

VOL. I.

L

Sweet

Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry fwaird,

Ye

In fhady bow'r :

THEN you, ye auld, fnick-drawing dóg!

e cam to paradise incog.

An' play'd on man a curfed brogue,

(Black be your fa'!)

An' gied the infant warld a fhog,

'Maift ruin'd a'.

D'YE mind that day, when in a bizz,

Wi' reekit duds, an reestit gizz,

Ye did present your smoutie phiz,

'Mang better folk,

An' sklented on the man of Uzz,

Your fpitefu' joke?

AN' how ye gat him i' your thrall, An' brak him out o' houfe ani hal,'

!

While fcabs and botches did him gall,

Wi' bitter claw,

An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked Scawl,

Was warft ava?

Bur a' your doings to rehcarfe,

Your wily fnares an' fetchin fierce,

Sin' that day Michael * did you pierce,

Down to this time,

Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse,

In profe or rhyme.

An' now auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin,

A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin,

Some lucklefs hour will fend him linkin,

To your black pit;

But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin,

An' cheat you, yet.

L.2

Vide Milton, Book VI.

BUT

BUT, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!

O wad ye tak a thought an' men'!

Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken

Still hae a stake

I'm wae to think upo' yon den,

Ev'n for your fake!

THE

DEATH AND DYING WORDS

OF

POOR MAILIE,

THE AUTHOR's ONLY PET YOWE.

An Unco Mournfu' Tale.

AS Mailie, an' her lambs thegither,

Was ae day nibbling on the tether,

Upon her cloot the cooft a hitch,

An' owre fhe warfl'd in the ditch:

There,

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