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Or nobly die, the second glorious part: (The patriot's God peculiarly thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never Scotia's realm desert; But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!


O Prince! O chief of many throned Pow'rs
That led th' embattl'd Seraphim to war-


O THOU! Whatever title suit thee-
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie,

Clos'd under hatches,

Spairges about the brunstane cootie,

To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An' let poor damnèd bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
Ev'n to a deil,
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow'r an' great thy fame;
Far ken'd an' noted is thy name;
An' tho' yon lowin' heuch's thy hame,
Thou travels far;

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

Whiles, ranging like a roarin lion,


prey, a' holes and corners tryin;
Whiles, on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin,

Tirlin the kirks;

Whiles, in the human bosom pryin,

Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my rev'rend graunie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;

Or where auld ruin'd castles grey

Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way,

Wi' eldritch croon.

When twilight did my graunie summon, To say her pray'rs, douse, honest woman! Aft 'yont the dyke she's heard you bummin, Wi' eerie drone;

Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees 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-buss, stood in sight,

Wi' wavin' sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,

Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake,

When wi' an eldritch, stoor "quaick, quaick,"

Amang the springs,

Awa ye squatter'd like a drake,

On whistlin' wings.

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

And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,

Owre howkit dead.

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

By witchin' skill;

An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gane

As yell's the bill.

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.

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

By your direction,

And 'nighted trav❜llers are allur'd

To their destruction.

And aft your moss-traversin Spunkies
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is:
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies
Delude his eyes,

Till in some miry slough he sunk 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 brither ye wad whip

Aff straught to hell.

Lang syne 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,

Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird,

In shady bower;1

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog!
Ye cam to Paradise incog,

1 The verse originally ran:

"Lang syne, in Eden's happy scene

When strappin Adam's days were green,

And Eve was like my bonie Jean,

My dearest part,

A dancin, sweet, young handsome quean,
O' guileless heart."

An' play'd on man a cursèd brogue,

(Black be your fa'!)

An' gied the infant warld a shog,

'Maist 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 spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,
An' brak him out o' house an hal',
While scabs and botches did him gall,

Wi' bitter claw;

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

Was warst ava?

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

Down to this time,

Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,

In prose or rhyme.

An' 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.

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 sake!

2 Vide Milton, Book vi.-R. B.


Gie him strong drink until he wink,
That's sinking in despair;

An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,
That's prest wi' grief and care:
There let him bouse, an' deep carouse,
Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,

Till he forgets his loves or debts,
An' minds his griefs no more.

SOLOMON'S PROverbs, xxxi. 6, 7.

LET other poets raise a frácas

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drucken Bacchus, An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us,

An' grate our lug:

I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,
In glass or jug.

O thou, my muse! guid auld Scotch drink!
Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,

In glorious faem,

Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink,

To sing thy name!

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,
An' aits set up their awnie horn,
An' pease and beans, at e'en or morn,

Perfume the plain:

Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,

Thou king o' grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,
In souple scones, the wale o' food!

Or tumblin in the boiling flood

Wi' kail an' beef;

But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,

There thou shines chief.

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us leevin;

Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin,

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