The Poetry of Robert Burns | ||
ADDRESS TO THE DEIL
O Prince! O Chief of many thronèd pow'rs!
That led th'embattl'd seraphim to war.
MILTON.
That led th'embattl'd seraphim to war.
MILTON.
I
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!
II
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 squeel.
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III
Great is thy pow'r an' great thy fame;Far kend 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.
IV
Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion,For prey, a' holes an' corners trying;
Whyles, on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin,
Tirlin the kirks;
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,
Unseen thou lurks.
V
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.
VI
When twilight did my graunie summon,To say her pray'rs, douce, honest woman!
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Wi' eerie drone;
Or, rustlin, thro' the boortrees comin,
Wi' heavy groan.
VII
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.
VIII
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.
IX
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.
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X
Thence, countra wives, wi' toil an' pain,May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain;
For O! the yellow treasure's taen
By witching skill;
An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen
As yell's the bill.
XI
Thence, mystic knots mak great abuseOn 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.
XII
When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,An' float the jinglin icy boord,
Then, water-kelpies haunt the foord,
By your direction,
An' nighted trav'llers are allur'd
To their destruction.
XIII
And aft your moss-traversing spunkiesDecoy the wight that late an' drunk is:
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Delude his eyes,
Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne'er mair to rise.
XIV
When Masons' mystic word an' gripIn storms an' tempests raise you up,
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,
Or, strange to tell!
The youngest brother ye wad whip
Aff straught to hell.
XV
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 bow'r:
XVI
Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog!Ye cam to Paradise incog,
An' play'd on man a cursed brogue
(Black be your fa'!),
An' gied the infant warld a shog,
'Maist ruin'd a'.
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XVII
D'ye mind that day when in a bizzWi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz
'Mang better folk;
An' sklented on the man of Uzz
Your spitefu' joke?
XVIII
An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,An' brak him out o' house an' hal',
While scabs an' botches did him gall,
Wi' bitter claw;
An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd wicked scaul—
Was warst ava?
XIX
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.
XX
An' now, Auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin,A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin,
53
To your black Pit;
But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin,
An' cheat you yet.
XXI
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!
The Poetry of Robert Burns | ||