Reason drops headlong from his sacred throne,
Your dear idea reigns, and reigns alone:
Each thought intoxicated homage yields,
And riots wanton in forbidden fields !

By all on high adoring mortals know!
By all the conscious villain fears below!
By your dear self!-the last great oath I swear-
Nor life nor soul was ever half so dear!

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.

THOU! whatever title suit thee,

Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie,

Clootie,

Closed under hatches,

Spairges about the brunstane cootie,

To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
And let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie

E'en to a deil,

To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me,
And hear us squeel!

Great is thy power, and great thy fame;
Far kenn'd and noted is thy name:
And though yon lowin' heugh's thy hame,
Thou travels far:

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

Whyles ranging like a roaring lion
For prey a' holes and corners tryin':
Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin',
Tirlin' the kirks;

Whyles in the human bosom pryin',
Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend grannie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray:
Or where auld ruin'd castles, grey,
Nod to the moon,

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

When twilight did my grannie summon,
To say her prayers, douce, honest woman!
Aft yont the dike she's heard you bummin',
Wi' eerie drone;

Or, rustlin, through the boortries comin',
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, like a rash-bush, stood in sight,

Wi' waving sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,

Each bristled hair stood like a stake,
When wi' an eldritch stoor, quaick, quaick,

Amang the springs,

A wa' ye squatter'd, like a drake,

On whistlin' wings.

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.

And aft your moss-traversing spunkies
Decoy the wight that late and drunk is:
The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys
Delude his eyes,

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

Let warlocks grim, and 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.

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

By witching skill;

And dawtit twal-pint hawkie's gaen
As yell's the bill.

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

By cantrip wit,

Is instant made no worth a louse,

Just at the bit.

When mason's mystic word and grip
In storms and 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!

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

Sweet on the fragrant flowery sward,
In shady bower.

Then you, ye auld sneck-drawing dog!
Ye came to Paradise incog.,

And play'd on man a cursed brogue,

(Black be your fa'!)

And gied the infant warld a shog,

'Maist ruin'd a'.

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

'Mang better folk,

And sklented on the man of Uzz

Your spitefu' joke?

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

And lowsed his ill-tongued, wicked scrawl,

Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares and fechtin' fierce,
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce,
Down to this time,

Wad ding a Lallan tongue or Erse,

In prose or rhyme.

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',
And cheat you yet.

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!
Oh, 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,

Even for your sake!

K

IND sir, I've read your paper through,
And, faith, to me 'twas really new!
How guess'd ye, sir, what maist I wanted?
This mony a day I've gran'd and gaunted