THE CALF. TO THE REV. MR. ON HIS TEXT, MALACHI, CH. IV. VER. 2. 'And they shall go forth, and grow up like calves of the stall.' RIGHT, sir! your text I'll prove it true, For instance; there's yoursel just now, And should some patron be so kind, I doubt na, sir, but then we'll find, But, if the lover's raptur'd hour You e'er should be a stot! Though, when some kind, connubial dear, Your but-and-ben adorns, The like has been that you may wear A noble head of horns. And in your lug, most reverend James, Few men o' sense will doubt your claims And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, Wi' justice they may mark your head- ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. Oh Prince! Oh Chief of many throned powers, MILTON. O THOU! whatever title suit thee, Closed under hatches, Spairges about the brustane cootie, To scand poor wretches! Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, E'n to a deil, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame; Thou travels far; An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Nor blate nor scaur. Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion, Whyles, in the human bosom pryin, Unseen thou lurks.. I've heard my reverend graunie say, Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way, Wi' eldritch croon. When twilight did my graunie summon, Or, rustlin, thro' the boortries comin, 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' waving sugh. The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristi'd 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. Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, Wi' wicked speed; And in kirkyards renew their leagues, Owre howkit dead. Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, By witching skill; An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen 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, An' nighted travellers are allur'd To their destruction. An' aft your moss traversing spunkies Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise. When Masons' mystic word an' grip, The youngest brother ye wad whip Aff straught to hell! Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard, The raptur'd hour, Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry sward, In shady bow'r: Then you, ye auld, snic-drawing dog! An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, (Black be your fa!) An' gied the infant warld a shod, '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 scawl, Was warst ava? |