Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. III. The Eighteenth Century: Addison to Blake

Robert Burns (1759–1796)

Address to the Deil

O THOU! whatever title suit thee,

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.

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 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.

Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion,

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.

I ’ve heard my reverend grannie say,

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.

When twilight did my grannie summon,

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.

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’ waving sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,

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.

Let warlocks grim, an’ withered 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’ dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie’s gaen

As yell ’s the bill.

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,

An’ float the jinglin’ icy-boord,

Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord,

By your direction,

An’ nighted Trav’llers are allured

To their destruction.

An’ aft your moss-traversing 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 ‘brother’ ye wad whip

Aff straught to hell.

Lang syne, in Eden’s bonie yard,

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:

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawin dog!

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’.

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 an’ blotches did him gall,

Wi’ bitter claw,

An’ lowsed his ill-tongued wicked scaul,

Was warst ava?

But a’ your doings to rehearse,

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.

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!