[Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet

I dinna ken how ye can tell
Sae muckle o' the chief o' Hell
Wha i' your sang ye hae sae well
An' ably painted,
Unless auld spunkie an' your sel
Are weel acquainted.

I dinna see how ye should ken,
Sae muckle o' th' infernal den,
Unless i' truth yoursel hae been
E'e witness o' it;
Ye maun hae been delighted then,—
Ye reverend poet.

For I maun say, that your idea,
O' the auld imp is muckle queer;
I ken ye maun hae gumption clear
For likeness taken;
When o'er your head his dusky spear,
The fiend was shakin'.

Did ye nae fear that he wad stick ye,
And down amang his brimstane kick ye?
Not sae—, ye kenn'd he wadna trick ye
When friendly to him;
A downright gawkie wad auld Nick be
To wark ye ruin.

Aweel—ye are a learned ane
And reverend too ye are, an' nane
Maun doubt the truth o' what has been
Tauld them i' numbers,
Sae fine—that while we list your strain,
A' reason slumbers.

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An' if auld splitfoot be sae gude
As ye wad hae it understood,
He maun feel muckle gratitude,
For a' ye've done him,
An' a' o' Hell's dark multitude,”
Be sure will join him.

But earthly kings, ye ken will hae
Their flatterers near them, ane an' a',
An' wha kens but auld Nick may ca'
Ye also to him;
Sae if i' truth ye wish to gae,
Mair kindness do him.

Haverhill Gazette, October 13, 1827

University of Virginia Library

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE “ODE TO SATAN”