By far the
best Burns poem for a Sunday blog J
______________________________________
Address
To The Deil
By Robert
Burns
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.
Thence
mystic knots mak great abuse
On young
guidmen, fond, keen an' crouse,
When the
best wark-lume i' the house,
By
cantrip wit,
Is
instant made no worth a louse,
Just at
the bit.
When
thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
An' float
the jinglin' icy boord,
Then
water-kelpies haunt the foord,
By your
direction,
And
'nighted trav'llers are allur'd
To their
destruction.
And aft
your moss-traversin 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 brither ye wad whip
Aff
straught to hell.
Lang syne
in Eden's bonie yard,
When
youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,
An' all
the soul of love they shar'd,
The
raptur'd hour,
Sweet on
the fragrant flow'ry swaird,
In shady
bower;
Then you,
ye auld, snick-drawing dog!
Ye cam to
Paradise incog,
An'
play'd on man a cursed brogue,
(Black be
your fa'!)
An' gied
the infant warld a shog,
'Maist
rui'd 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 and botches did him gall,
Wi'
bitter claw;
An'
lows'd his ill-tongu'd wicked scaul',
Was warst
ava?
But a'
your doings to rehearse,
Your wily
snares an' fechtin fierce,
Sin' that
day Michael did you pierce,
Down to
this time,
Wad ding
a Lallan tounge, 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-
Stil hae
a stake:
I'm wae
to think up' yon den,
Ev'n for
your sake!
No comments:
Post a Comment