I've heard my reverend grannie 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 grannie summon,
To say her prayers, douce, honest woman!
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you hummin,
Wi' eerie drone;

Or rustlin thro' the bootries 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-bush, stood in sight,

Wi' waving sugh.

The cudgil in my nieve did shake, Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch stour, quaick-quaickAmang 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 howkit dead.

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, fay plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain;

For, oh! the yellow treasure's taen
By witching skill:

An' dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen
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, And float the jingling icy-boord, Then Water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction,

An' nighted trav'llers are allur'd

To their destruction.

An' aft your moss-traversing 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 Mason's 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 brother ye wad whip
Aff straught to h-ll!

Long syne, in Eden's bonie yard,
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd
An' a' the saul 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-drawing dog! Ye came to Paradise incog.

An' 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' reekit duds, an' reestit 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 an hall, While scabs an blotches did him gall,

Wi' bitter claw,

An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked Scawl,
Was warst ava?

But a' your doings to rehearse, Your willy snares an' fetchin 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,

* Vide Milton, Book VI.

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' your den,,

Ev'n for your sake!

ON THE LATE

CAPTAIN GROSE'S

PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM.

HEAR Land O' Cakes, and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's;
If there's a hole in a' your coats,
I rede ye tent it:

A chiel's amang you taking notes,

And, faith, he'll prent it.

If in your bounds ye chance to light
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight,

O' stature short, but genius bright,

That's he, mark v

And vow! he has an unco slight
O' eauk and keel.

By some auld, houlet-haunted-biggin,*
Or kirk deserted by its riggin,

It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in
Some eldritch part,

Wi' Deils, they say, L-d safe's! colleaguin
At some black art.-

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or cham'er, Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamor, And you, deep-read in hell's black grammar, Warlocks and witches;

Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer,

Ye midnight b-es.

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 feuth o' auld nich-nackets!
Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets,t
Wad hand the Lothians three in tackets,
A towmont guid;

And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets,
Before the flood.

Vide his Antiquities of Scotland.

ide his Treatise on Ancient Armour and

s.