Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha’ or chaumer,
     Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour,
     And you, deep-read in hell’s black grammar,
     Warlocks and witches,
     Ye’ll quake at his conjuring hammer,
     Ye midnight bitches.

     It’s tauld he was a sodger bred,
     And ane wad rather fa’n than fled;
     But now he’s quat the spurtle-blade,
     And dog-skin wallet,
     And taen the—­Antiquarian trade,
     I think they call it.

     He has a fouth o’ auld nick-nackets: 
     Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets,
     Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,
     A towmont gude;
     And parritch-pats and auld saut-backets,
     Before the Flood.

     Of Eve’s first fire he has a cinder;
     Auld Tubalcain’s fire-shool and fender;
     That which distinguished the gender
     O’ Balaam’s ass: 
     A broomstick o’ the witch of Endor,
     Weel shod wi’ brass.

     Forbye, he’ll shape you aff fu’ gleg
     The cut of Adam’s philibeg;
     The knife that nickit Abel’s craig
     He’ll prove you fully,
     It was a faulding jocteleg,
     Or lang-kail gullie.

     But wad ye see him in his glee,
     For meikle glee and fun has he,
     Then set him down, and twa or three
     Gude fellows wi’ him: 
     And port, O port! shine thou a wee,
     And Then ye’ll see him!

     Now, by the Pow’rs o’ verse and prose! 
     Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose!—­
     Whae’er o’ thee shall ill suppose,
     They sair misca’ thee;
     I’d take the rascal by the nose,
     Wad say, “Shame fa’ thee!”

Epigram On Francis Grose The Antiquary

     The Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying
     So whip! at the summons, old Satan came flying;
     But when he approached where poor Francis lay moaning,
     And saw each bed-post with its burthen a-groaning,
     Astonish’d, confounded, cries Satan—­“By God,
     I’ll want him, ere I take such a damnable load!”

The Kirk Of Scotland’s Alarm

     A Ballad.

     Tune—­“Come rouse, Brother Sportsman!”

     Orthodox! orthodox, who believe in John Knox,
     Let me sound an alarm to your conscience: 
     A heretic blast has been blown in the West,
     “That what is no sense must be nonsense,”
     Orthodox!  That what is no sense must be nonsense.

     Doctor Mac!  Doctor Mac, you should streek on a rack,
     To strike evil-doers wi’ terror: 
     To join Faith and Sense, upon any pretence,
     Was heretic, damnable error,
     Doctor Mac!^1 ’Twas heretic, damnable error.

     Town of Ayr! town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare,
     To meddle wi’ mischief a-brewing,^2
     Provost John^3 is still deaf to the Church’s relief,
     And Orator Bob^4 is its ruin,
     Town of Ayr!  Yes, Orator Bob is its ruin.