O Thou! who pour’d the patriotic tide,
     That stream’d thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart,
     Who dar’d to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
     Or nobly die, the second glorious part: 
     (The patriot’s God peculiarly thou art,
     His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
     O never, never Scotia’s realm desert;
     But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard
     In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

Address To The Deil

     O Prince!  O chief of many throned Pow’rs
     That led th’ embattl’d Seraphim to war—­
     Milton.

     O Thou! whatever title suit thee—­
     Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
     Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sootie,
     Clos’d 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 ken’d an’ noted is thy name;
     An’ tho’ yon lowin’ heuch’s thy hame,
     Thou travels far;
     An’ faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame,
     Nor blate, nor scaur.

     Whiles, ranging like a roarin lion,
     For prey, a’ holes and corners tryin;
     Whiles, on the strong-wind’d tempest flyin,
     Tirlin the kirks;
     Whiles, in the human bosom pryin,
     Unseen thou lurks.

     I’ve heard my rev’rend graunie say,
     In lanely glens ye like to stray;
     Or where auld ruin’d castles grey
     Nod to the moon,
     Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way,
     Wi’ eldritch croon.

     When twilight did my graunie summon,
     To say her pray’rs, douse, 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 gat a fright,
     Ayont the lough;
     Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight,
     Wi’ wavin’ sough.

     The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
     Each brist’ld hair stood like a stake,
     When wi’ an eldritch, stoor “quaick, quaick,”
     Amang the springs,
     Awa ye squatter’d like a drake,
     On whistlin’ wings.

     Let warlocks grim, an’ wither’d 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 and pain,
     May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in vain;
     For oh! the yellow treasure’s ta’en
     By witchin’ skill;
     An’ dawtit, twal-pint hawkie’s gane
     As yell’s the bill.