vils, water-kelpies, spunkies, witches, charms, spells, and
many other forms of superstition.

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,
E'en to a deil,
To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me,
An' hear us squeel?

Great is thy pow'r, and great thy fame;
Far kend and 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 and corners tryin';
Whyles on the strong-winged tempest flyin',
Tirling the kirks;
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin',
Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend grannie say,
In lanely glens you like to stray;
Or where auld ruined castles grey
Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way,
Wi' eldritch croon.

When twilight did my grannie summon
To say her prayers, douce 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 got a fright,
Ayont the lough;
Ye, like a rash-bush stood in sight,
Wi' waving sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristled hair stood like a stake,
When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick--quaick--
Amang the springs,
Awa ye squatter'd like a drake,
On whistling wings.

Let warlocks grim, and wither'd hags,
Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs, and 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 ta'en
By