Address To Beelzebub
LONG
life,
my
Lord,
an'
health
be
yours,
Unskaithed
by
hunger'd
Highland
boors;
Lord
grant
me
nae
duddie,
desperate
beggar,
Wi'
dirk,
claymore,
and
rusty
trigger,
May
twin
auld
Scotland
o'
a
life
She
likes—as
butchers
like
a
knife.
Faith
you
and
Applecross
were
right
To
keep
the
Highland
hounds
in
sight:
I
doubt
na!
they
wad
bid
nae
better,
Than
let
them
ance
out
owre
the
water,
Then
up
among
thae
lakes
and
seas,
They'll
mak
what
rules
and
laws
they
please:
Some
daring
Hancocke,
or
a
Franklin,
May
set
their
Highland
bluid
a-ranklin;
Some
Washington
again
may
head
them,
Or
some
Montgomery,
fearless,
lead
them,
Till
(God
knows
what
may
be
effected
When
by
such
heads
and
hearts
directed),
Poor
dunghill
sons
of
dirt
and
mire
May
to
Patrician
rights
aspire!
Nae
sage
North
now,
nor
sager
Sackville,
To
watch
and
premier
o'er
the
pack
vile,—
An'
whare
will
ye
get
Howes
and
Clintons
To
bring
them
to
a
right
repentance—
To
cowe
the
rebel
generation,
An'
save
the
honour
o'
the
nation?
They,
an'
be
d—d!
what
right
hae
they
To
meat,
or
sleep,
or
light
o'
day?
Far
less—to
riches,
pow'r,
or
freedom,
But
what
your
lordship
likes
to
gie
them?
But
hear,
my
lord!
Glengarry,
hear!
Your
hand's
owre
light
to
them,
I
fear;
Your
factors,
grieves,
trustees,
and
bailies,
I
canna
say
but
they
do
gaylies;
They
lay
aside
a'
tender
mercies,
An'
tirl
the
hallions
to
the
birses;
Yet
while
they're
only
poind't
and
herriet,
They'll
keep
their
stubborn
Highland
spirit:
But
smash
them!
crash
them
a'
to
spails,
An'
rot
the
dyvors
i'
the
jails!
The
young
dogs,
swinge
them
to
the
labour;
Let
wark
an'
hunger
mak
them
sober!
The
hizzies,
if
they're
aughtlins
fawsont,
Let
them
in
Drury-lane
be
lesson'd!
An'
if
the
wives
an'
dirty
brats
Come
thiggin
at
your
doors
an'
yetts,
Flaffin
wi'
duds,
an'
grey
wi'
beas',
Frightin
away
your
ducks
an'
geese;
Get
out
a
horsewhip
or
a
jowler,
The
langest
thong,
the
fiercest
growler,
An'
gar
the
tatter'd
gypsies
pack
Wi'
a'
their
bastards
on
their
back!
Go
on,
my
Lord!
I
lang
to
meet
you,
An'
in
my
house
at
hame
to
greet
you;
Wi'
common
lords
ye
shanna
mingle,
The
benmost
neuk
beside
the
ingle,
At
my
right
han'
assigned
your
seat,
'Tween
Herod's
hip
an'
Polycrate:
Or
(if
you
on
your
station
tarrow),
Between
Almagro
and
Pizarro,
A
seat,
I'm
sure
ye're
well
deservin't;
An'
till
ye
come—your
humble
servant,BEELZEBUB.June
1st,
Anno
Mundi
5790.
