Address To The Deil

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 damnèd bodies be; I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie, Ev’n to a deil, To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me, An’ hear us squeal!

Great is thy pow’r, an’ great thy fame; Far kenn’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 rangin’ 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 reverend grannie say, In lanely glens ye like to stray; Or, where auld ruin’d castles gray Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way, Wi’ eldritch croon.

When twilight did my grannie summon To say her pray’rs, douce, 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; Ye like a rash-buss stood in sight Wi’ waving sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristled hair stood like a stake, 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 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 howkit dead.

Thence country wives, wi’ toil an’ pain, May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in vain; For oh! the yellow treasure’s taen By witchin’ skill; An’ dawtit twal-pint Hawkie’s gane As yell’s the bill.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse On young guidmen, fond, keen, an’ crouse; 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-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction, An’ ’nighted travelers are allur’d To their destruction.

An’ aft your moss-traversing spunkies Decoy the wight that late an’ drunk is: The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies 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 bonnie yard, When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d, And 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-drawing dog! Ye cam to Paradise incog. An’ play’d on man a cursed brogue, (Black be you fa!) An’ gied the infant warld a shog, ’Maist ruin’d a’.

D’ye mind that day, when in a bizz, Wi’ reekit duds, an’ reestit 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 an’ hal’, While scabs an’ blotches did him gall Wi’ bitter claw, An’ lows’d his ill-tongu’d wicked scawl, 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!