Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. III. The Eighteenth Century: Addison to Blake
Robert Burns (17591796)Address to the Deil
O
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sootie,
Closed 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 kenn’d an’ 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.
For prey a’ holes an’ corners tryin;
Whyles on the strong-winged tempest flyin,
Tirlin the kirks;
Whyles in the human bosom pryin,
Unseen thou lurks.
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or where auld ruined castles, gray,
Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way,
Wi’ eldritch croon.
To say her pray’rs, douce, honest woman!
Aft ’yont the dyke she ’s heard you bummin,
W’ 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’ waving sough.
Each bristled hair stood like a stake,
When wi’ an eldritch, stoor, ‘quaick, quaick,’
Amang the springs,
Awa ye squattered like a drake,
On whistling 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 taen
By witching skill;
An’ dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie’s gaen
As yell ’s the bill.
An’ float the jinglin’ icy-boord,
Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord,
By your direction,
An’ nighted Trav’llers are allured
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 ‘brother’ ye wad whip
Aff straught to hell.
When youthfu’ lovers first were paired,
An’ all the soul of love they shared,
The raptured hour,
Sweet on the fragrant, flow’ry swaird,
In shady bow’r:
Ye came to Paradise incog,
An’ played on man a cursed brogue,
(Black be your fa’!)
An’ gied the infant warld a shog,
’Maist ruined 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 an’ blotches did him gall,
Wi’ bitter claw,
An’ lowsed his ill-tongued wicked scaul,
Was warst ava?
Your wily snares and fechtin fierce,
Sin’ that day Michael did you pierce,
Down to this time,
Wad ding a’ Lallan tongue, 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—
Still hae a stake—
I ’m wae to think upo’ yon den,
Ev’n for your sake!