Address ToThe Devil
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
damned
bodies
be;
I'm
sure
sma'
pleasure
it
can
gie,
E'en
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
heugh's
thy
hame,
Thou
travels
far;
An'
faith!
thou's
neither
lag
nor
lame,
Nor
blate
nor
scaur.
Whyles,
ranging
like
a
roarin
lion,
For
prey
a'
holes
an'
corners
tryin;
Whyles,
on
the
strong-wing'
d
tempest
flyin,
Tirlin'
the
kirks;
Whyles,
in
the
human
bosom
pryin,
Unseen
thou
lurks.
I've
heard
my
rev'rend
graunie
say,
In
lanely
glens
ye
like
to
stray;
Or
whare
auld
ruin'd
castles
gray
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,
douce
honest
woman!
Aft
yont
the
dike
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'
waving
sugh.
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
whistling
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
howket
dead.
Thence,
countra
wives
wi'
toil
an'
pain
May
plunge
an'
plunge
the
kirn
in
vain;
For
oh!
the
yellow
treasure's
taen
By
witchin
skill;
An'
dawtet,
twal-pint
hawkie's
gaen
As
yell's
the
bill.
Thence,
mystic
knots
mak
great
abuse,
On
young
guidmen,
fond,
keen,
an'
croose;
When
the
best
wark-lume
i'
the
house,
By
cantraip
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-kelpie
s
haunt
the
foord
By
your
direction,
An'
nighted
trav'lers
are
allur'd
To
their
destruction.
And
aft
your
moss-travers
ing
spunkies
Decoy
the
wight
that
late
an
drunk
is:
The
bleezin,
curst,
mischievous
monkeys
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'd
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
bow'r;
Then
you,
ye
auld
snick-drawin
dog!
Ye
cam
to
Paradise
incog,
And
play'd
on
man
a
cursed
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'
reeket
duds
an
reestet
gizz,
Ye
did
present
your
smoutie
phiz
Mang
better
folk,
An'
sklented
on
the
man
of
Uz
Your
spitefu'
joke?
An'
how
ye
gat
him
i'
your
thrall,
An'
brak
him
out
o'
house
and
hal',
While
scabs
and
blotches
did
him
gall,
Wi'
bitter
claw,
An'
lows'd
his
ill-tongued,
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!
