Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
84 . Address to the Deil
O T
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!
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! 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. 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. In lanely glens ye like to stray; Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way, Wi’ eldritch croon. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. When the best wark-lume i’ the house, By cantrip wit, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit. 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. 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. 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. 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; Ye cam to Paradise incog, (Black be your fa’!) An’ gied the infant warld a shog, ’Maist rui’d a’. 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’ 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? 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. 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. 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!