The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe Part 36

May be thou lets this fleshly thorn Beset thy servant e'en and morn, Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 'Cause he's sae gifted If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne, Until thou lift it.

L--d, bless thy chosen in this place, For here thou hast a chosen race: But G-d confound their stubborn face, And blast their name, Wha bring thy elders to disgrace And public shame.

L--d, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes, Yet has sae mony takin' arts, Wi' great and sma', Frae Gr-d's ain priests the people's hearts He steals awa'.

An' whan we chasten'd him therefore, Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, As set the warld in a roar O' laughin' at us;-- Curse thou his basket and his store, Kail and potatoes.

L--d, hear my earnest cry and pray'r, Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr; Thy strong right hand, L--d, mak' it bare Upo' their heads, L--d, weigh it down, and dinna spare, For their misdeeds.

O L--d my G-d, that glib-tongu'd Aiken, My very heart and saul are quakin'

To think how we stood groanin', shakin', And swat wi' dread, While Auld wi' hinging lip gaed snakin', And hid his head.

L--d in the day of vengeance try him, L--d, visit them wha did employ him, And pa.s.s not in thy mercy by 'em, Nor hear their pray'r; But for thy people's sake destroy 'em, And dinna spare.

But, L--d, remember me and mine, Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, That I for gear and grace may s.h.i.+ne, Excell'd by nane, An' a' the glory shall be thine, Amen, Amen!

EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE

Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay Taks up its last abode; His saul has ta'en some other way, I fear, the left-hand road.

Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun, Poor, silly body, see him; Nae wonder he's as black's the grun-- Observe wha's standing wi him!

Your brunstane devils.h.i.+p, I see, Has got him there before ye; But haud your nine-tail cat a wee, Till ance ye've heard my story.

Your pity I will not implore, For pity ye hae nane!

Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er And mercy's day is gane.

But hear me, sir, deil as ye are, Look something to your credit; A coof like him wad stain your name, If it were kent ye did it.

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL.

ROBERT BURNS.

"O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, That led th' embattled Seraphim to war!"-- MILTON.

O Thou! whatever t.i.tle suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie, Closed under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, An' let poor d.a.m.ned 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 power, an' great thy fame; Far kenn'd and 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 roaring lion, For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin'; Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin'

Tirl in 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 prayers, douce, honest woman!

Aft yont the d.y.k.e she's heard you b.u.mmin', Wi' eerie drone; Or, rustlin, thro' the boortries 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-bush, stood in sight, Wi' waving sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick--quack-- 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 howkit dead.

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain: For, oh! the yellow treasure's taen By witching skill An' dawt.i.t, twal-pint hawkie's gaen 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 thows dissolve the snawy hoord, An' float the jinglin icy-boord, Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction; An' sighted trav'lers are allur'd To their destruction.

An' aft your moss-traversing s.p.u.n.kies 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 c.o.c.k or cat your rage maun stop, Or, strange to tell!

The youngest brother ye wad whip Aff straught to h.e.l.l!

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie 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 sward, In shady bow'r:

Then you, ye auld, snec-drawing dog!

Ye came 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'.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, Wi' reekit duds, an' reest.i.t 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, Au' brak him out o' house an' hall, While scabs an' botches did him gall, Wi' bitter claw, And lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked scawl, Was warst ava?

But ai your doings to rehea.r.s.e, 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!!

THE DEVIL'S WALK ON EARTH.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

From his brimstone bed at break of day A walking the Devil is gone, To look at his snug little farm of the World, And see how his stock went on.