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For, Oh! the yellow treasure's taen

By witching skill; An' dawtit, twal-pint Haw kie's gaen

As yell's the Bill.

THENCE, mystic knots mak great abuse On young Guidmen, fond, keen, an' croufe ; When the best wark-lumo i' the house,

By cantrip wit,

Is instant made no worth a louse,

Just at the bit.

When thowes diffolve the snawy hoord, An' float the jinglin icy-boord, Then, Water-kelpies haunt the foord,

By your direction, An' nighted Trav'llers are allur'a

To their deftru&ion.

AN

An'aft your moss-traversing Spunkies Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is : The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies

Delude his eyes,

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Till in some miry flough he funk is,

Ne'er mair to rise:

WHEN Masons mystic word an' grip,
In storms an' tempests raise you up,
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,

Or, strange to tell !

The youngest Brother ye wad whip

Aff straught to h-11.

LANG fyne, in Eden's bonie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, An' all the Soul of love they shar'd,

The raptur'd hour,

VOL. I.

L

Sweet

J

Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry fwaird,

In shady bow'r:

THEN you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog! Ye

e cam to paradise incog. An' play'd on man a cursed brogue,

(Black be your fa'!) An' gied the infant warld a fhog,

'Maist ruin'da'.

D'YE mind that day, when in a bizz, Wi' reekit duds, an reeftit gizz,

Ye did present your smoutie phiz,

'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man of Ux2,

Your spitefu' joke?

AN' how ye gat him i' your thrall,

An' brak him out o' house an hal,'

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While scabs and botches did him gall,

Wi' bitter claw,

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

Was warft ava?

But a' your doings to rehcarfe, Your wily fnares an' fetchin fierce, Sin' that day Michael * did you piercing

Down to this time,

Wad ding a' Lallad tongue, or Erse,

In prose or rhyme.

An' now auld Cloots, I kon ye're thinkin, A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin,

Some luckless hour will send him linkin,

To your black pit; But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin,

An' cheat you, yet.

BUT

Vide Milton, Book VI.

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!

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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 coost a hitch,

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An' owre the wara'd in the ditch:

There,

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