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Robert Burns - Address ToThe Devil
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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,
        E`en 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 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-wing` d tempest flyin,
        Tirlin` the kirks;
    Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,
        Unseen thou lurks.
    I`ve heard my rev`rend graunie say,
    In lanely glens ye like to stray;
    Or whare auld ruin`d castles gray
        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, douce honest woman!
    Aft yont the dike 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` waving sugh.
    The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
    Each bristl`d hair stood like a stake,
    When wi` an eldritch, stoor "Quaick, quaick,"
        Amang the springs,
    Awa ye squatter`d like a drake,
        On whistling 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 howket dead.
    Thence, countra wives wi` toil an` pain
    May plunge an` plunge the kirn in vain;
    For oh! the yellow treasure`s taen
        By witchin skill;
    An` dawtet, twal-pint hawkie`s gaen
          As yell`s the bill.
    Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse,
    On young guidmen, fond, keen, an` croose;
    When the best wark-lume i` the house,
        By cantraip 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-kelpie s haunt the foord
        By your direction,
    An` nighted trav`lers are allur`d
        To their destruction. 
    And aft your moss-travers ing spunkies
    Decoy the wight that late an drunk is:
    The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys
        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`d 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 bow`r;
    Then you, ye auld snick-drawin  dog!
    Ye cam to Paradise incog,
    And play`d on man a cursed brogue,
        (Black be your fa`!)
    An gied the infant warld a shog,
        Maist ruin`d a`.
    D`ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
    Wi` reeket duds an reestet gizz,
    Ye did present your smoutie phiz
       Mang better folk,
   An` sklented on the man of Uz
       Your spitefu` joke?
   An` how ye gat him i` your thrall,
   An` brak him out o` house and hal`,
   While scabs and blotches did him gall,
       Wi` bitter claw,
   An` lows`d his ill-tongued,  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 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!
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