2 Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor d bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
E'en to a deil,

To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel!

3 Great is thy power, and great thy fame; Far kenn'd and noted is thy name;

An' though yon lowin' heugh's thy hame,
Thou travels far;

An', faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate nor scaur.

4 Whyles, ranging like a roarin' lion,
For prey a' holes an' corners tryin';
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin',
Tirlin' the kirks;

Whyles in the human bosom pryin',

Unseen thou lurks.

5 I've heard my reverend grannie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or where auld ruin'd castles, gray,

Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wanderer's way,
Wi' eldritch croon.

6 When twilight did my grannie summon, To say her prayers, douce, honest woman! Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin',

Wi' eerie drone;

Or, rustlin', through the boortries comin',

Wi' heavy groan,

7 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 rash-bush stood in sight,
Wi' waving sough.

8 The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristled hair stood like a stake,
When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick—quaick-
Amang the springs,

Awa'

ye squatter'd, like a drake,

On whistling wings.

9 Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags,
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs and dizzy crags,
Wi' wicked speed;

And in kirkyards renew their leagues,
Owre howkit dead.

10 Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; For, oh! the yellow treasure 's taen

By witching skill;

And dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen

As yeld's the bill.

11 Thence mystic knots mak great abuse,
On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse;
When the best wark-lume i' the house,

By cantrip wit,

Is instant made no worth a louse,

Just at the bit,

12 When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
And float the jinglin' icy-boord,
Then water-kelpies haunt the foord,
By your direction,

And 'nighted travellers are allured

To their destruction.

13 An' aft your moss-travèrsing spunkies
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is:
The bleezin', cursed mischievous monkeys
Delude his eyes,

Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne'er mair to rise.

14 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 hell!

15 Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard,
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,
And all the soul of love they shared,
The raptured hour,

Sweet on the fragrant, flowery swaird,
In shady bower:

16 Then you, ye auld sneck-drawing dog!

Ye came to Paradise incog.,

An' play'd on man a cursed brogue,

(Black be your fa!)

And gied the infant warld a shog,

'Maist ruin'd a'.

17 D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi' reekit duds an' reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smootie phiz

'Mang better folk,

An' sklented on the man of Uz

Your spitefu' joke?

18 And how ye gat him i' your thrall,
And brak him out o' house an' hall,
While scabs an' blotches did him gall,
Wi' bitter claw,

And lowsed his ill tongued, wicked scawl,
Was warst ava?

19 But a' your doings to rehearse,

Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce,
Sin' that day Michael1 did you pierce,

Down to this time,

Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,

In prose or rhyme.

20 And now, auld Cloots, I ken 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.

21 But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben! O wad ye tak a thought and men'! Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken

Still hae a stake-

I'm wae to think upo' yon den,

E'en for your

Michael: Vide Milton, book vi.-B.

sake!

THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR

MAILIE,

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE:

AN UNCO MOUrnfu' tale.

As Mailie and her lambs thegither,
Were ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
And owre she warsled in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc' he cam doytin' by.
Wi' glowrin' e'en, and lifted han's,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, waes my heart! he couldna mend it!
He gaped wide, but naething spak;
At length poor Mailie silence brak :

'O thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woefu' case,
My dying words attentive hear,
An' bear them to my master dear.

Tell him, if e'er again he keep
As muckle gear as buy a sheep,
Oh, bid him never tie them mair
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair!
But ca' them out to park or hill,
And let them wander at their will;
So may his flock increase, and grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'!
'Tell him, he was a master kin',
And aye was guid to me and mine ;

16 Hughoc: a neighbour herd-callan.-B.

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