An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies 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 The youngest Brother ye wad whip Aff straught to hell! Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, The raptur'd hour, Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird, In shady bow'r: Then you, ye auld, snic-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, 'Mang better fo'k, An' sklented on the man of Uzz VOL. I. Your spitefu' joke? G An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, Wi' bitter claw, An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked Scawl, Was warst ava? But a' your doings to rehearse, 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! Still hae a stake I'm wae to think upo' yon den, Ev'n for your sake! Vide Milton, Book VI. THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. An unco mournfu' Tale. As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, I Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted han's, 'O thou, whase lamentable face 1. A neebor herd-callan. 'Tell him, he was a Master kin', ' O, bid him save their harmless lives, But aye keep mind to moop an' mell, Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel! An' now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith: An' when you think upo' your Mither, Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail To tell tale; An' bid him burn this cursed tether, An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blether.' This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, An' clos'd her een amang the dead. POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose, Past a' remead; The last sad cape-stane o' his woes; Poor Mailie's dead! It's no the loss o' warl's gear, Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear The mourning weed: He's lost a friend and neebor dear, In Mailie dead. Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him; A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, |