Petition to the Deil :: :: University of Virginia Library

O thou, wham yet I'm sweer to name—
A kind o' Kaiser when at hame,
A spy abroad—but a' the same,
Withoot addition,
Deevil! I thy attention claim
To my petition.

I dinna o' your deeds approve,
Still less your character I loove;
An' then, ye ken, your horn an' hoove
Are bestial features;
Yet—one proposal I would move
For his puir creatures.

There's ane that would usurp your station—
A Kaiser o' a late creation;
He's made a bonnie conflagration!
But let him ken
He's workin' to his ain damnation
In your black den.

He's murderin', mittlin', burnin', rapin',
His course to every mischief shapin';
An', tho' nor wife nor wean's escapin'
His vandal claw,
Washes, wi' sanctimonious saipin',
His hands o't a'!

I tell your Hornèd Blackness fairly
That neither recent times nor early
(Except it was that hurly-burly
Ye had in heaven)
Raised sic a stour as this—which merely
Cowes a' descrievin'.

It canna be your deevil's natur'
To tak' that insolence fra the cratur'—
A vapourin', cantin', poachin' traitor!
Swith, roond him in!
It's kent ye mak' an unco hater
When ye begin.

Sawtan, ye deevil! if ye did it,
Man would approve, nor God forbid it;

'Twad be a service at your credit
In future barter;
A stroke o' policy—I've said it—
In a High Quarter!

Lure him alang the brunstane road,
Wi' broken touns an' treaties strow'd,
Doun to the yetts o' your abode,
An' let a' hell come,
Wi' bombs an' banners blazin' broad,
To gi'e him welcome!

Mak' it a holiday in hell,
Turn oot the toun-guard, ring the bell,
Drink, an' let every weasan' yell,
Lang live Mahoun!
Whyle tykes wi' tinnies at their tail
Flee thro' your toun!

Let every little deevil-boy
Let aff his cracker or pee-oy—
If in hell's wynds there's sic a toy;
An' fra the shouther
Your swedds will fire a few-de-joy
O'stinkin' pouther!

Then at the port, as in ye come,
You caperin', an' your captive glum,
It's first a bang! an' syne a bomb
Hell's concave teerin'!
An' then—the silence o' the tomb,
The want o' hearin'!

This for his Welcome. His Reward
Can for a season be defarr'd
Until his hearin's no' sae hard;
But grup his gravit!
Think what he did, an' what he dar'd—
An' lat him have it!

Seek oot a hetter hole in hell
Than ever yet ye kent yoursel',
An', as he shrinks wi' bristlin' fell
An' shudderin' skin,
Doun on him, Deevil, wi' a yell,
An' plunge him in!

See Paradise Lost, Book VI.