The Poetical Works of Robert Burns/Address to the Deil
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O Prince! O chief of many throned Pow'rs
That led th' embattl'd Seraphim to war-
- Milton
- 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 damned 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!
- Great is thy pow'r an' great thy fame;
- Far ken'd an' noted is thy name;
- An' tho' yon lowin' heuch's thy hame,
- Thou travels far;
- An' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame,
- Nor blate, nor scaur.
- Whiles, ranging like a roarin lion,
- For prey, a' holes and corners tryin;
- Whiles, on the strong-wind'd tempest flyin,
- Tirlin the kirks;
- Whiles, in the human bosom pryin,
- Unseen thou lurks.
- 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.
- When twilight did my graunie summon,
- To say her pray'rs, douse, 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' wavin' sough.
- The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
- Each brist'ld 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 countra wives, wi' toil and pain,
- May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain;
- For oh! the yellow treasure's ta'en
- 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,
- And 'nighted trav'llers are allur'd
- To their destruction.
- And aft your moss-traversin 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 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 bower; [1]
- 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 rui'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 Uzz
- Your spitefu' joke?
- An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,
- An' brak him out o' house an hal',
- While scabs and botches did him gall,
- Wi' bitter claw;
- An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd wicked scaul',
- 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 tounge, 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-
- Stil hae a stake:
- I'm wae to think up' yon den,
- Ev'n for your sake!
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This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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