Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, O Scotia! my dear, my native soil! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! And O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd isle. O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide, That stream'd thro' great unhappy Wallace' heart, Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part: In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! ADDRESS TO THE DEIL "O Prince! O chief of many throned pow'rs That led th' embattl'd seraphim to war—" Milton. O Thou! whatever title suit thee— Clos'd under hatches, To scaud poor wretches! Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, Great is thy pow'r an' great thy fame; Thou travels far; An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Nor blate, nor scaur. Whiles, ranging like a roarin lion, For 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, 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; Wi' wavin sough. Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight, The cudgel in my nieve did shake, 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, Wi' wicked speed; And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, Owre howkit dead. Thence countra wives, wi' toil and pain, By witchin skill; An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gane As yell's the bill. Thence mystic knots mak great abuse By cantrip wit, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit. When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 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 Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise. When masons' mystic word an' grip The youngest brither ye wad whip Aff straught to hell. Lang syne in Eden's bonie yard, The raptur'd hour, Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry swaird, In shady bower;1 Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog! 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 'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man of Uzz Your spitefu' joke? An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, Wi' bitter claw; An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd wicked scaul', But a' your doings to rehearse, Down to this time, Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, In prose or rhyme. An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, To your black pit; But faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin, An' cheat you yet. But fare-you-weel, auld Nickie-ben! Still hae a stake: I'm wae to think upo' yon den, Ev'n for your sake! SCOTCH DRINK Gie him strong drink until he wink, An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, 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 fracas '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, 2 Vide Milton, Book vi.—R. B. |