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 boortreesd comin,

Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night,

The stars shot down wi' sklentine light,

Wi' you mysel' I gat a fright,

1

Ayont the lough;

Wi' wavin sough.g

Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight,

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'd1 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 howkit1 dead.

Thence countra wives, wi' toil and pain,
May plunge an' plunge the kirnk in vain ;

C.A. Young, 12.

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL

For oh! the yellow treasure's ta'en

By witchin skill;

An' dawtit,a twal-pint hawkieb 's gane
As yell's the bill.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse
On young guidmen, fond, keen an' croused
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-kelpiesh haunt the foord,

By your direction,

To their destruction.

And 'nighted trav'llers are allur'd

And aft your moss-traversin Spunkies

Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is:
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies epithets

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,

An' play'd on man a cursèd brogue, b

(Black be your fa'!)

'Maist ruin'd a'.

An' gied the infant warld a shog,

D'ye mind that day when in a bizza

Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz,

Ye did present your smoutie phiz

f

'Mang better folk,

Your spitefu' joke ?

An' sklented on the man of Uzz

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

An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd wicked scaul',1
Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce,

Sin' that day Michael 2 did you pierce,

Down to this time,

Wad ding a Lallan

tongue, or Erse,k

In prose or rhyme.

SCOTCH DRINK

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 !

Scotch Drink.1

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 wrackbus,
An' grate our lug:

I sing the juice Scotch beard 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 haughsa 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,d

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,

When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' grievin;

But, oil'd by thee,
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin,h
Wi' rattlin glee.

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear;1
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,

At's weary toil;

Thou even brightens dark Despair

Wi' gloomy smile.

Aft, clad in massy siller weed,

Wi' gentles thou erects thy head;

Yet, humbly kind in time o' need,

His wee drap parritch, or his bread,

The poor man's wine;