The Beauties of Burn's Poems/Address to the Diel
For other versions of this work, see Address to the Deil (Burns).
ADDRESS to the DIEL.
O thou, whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in your cavern grim or Sootie,
Clos'd under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretchesǃ
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in your cavern grim or Sootie,
Clos'd under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretchesǃ
Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
And let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma pleasure it can gie,
Ev'n to a diel,
To skelp and scauld poor dogs like me,
And hear us squeel!
And let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma pleasure it can gie,
Ev'n to a diel,
To skelp and scauld poor dogs like me,
And hear us squeel!
Great is thy pow'r, and great thy fameǃ
Far kend and noted is thy nameǃ
And tho yon lowan heugh's thy hame,
Thou travels far:
And faith thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate, nor scaur.
Far kend and noted is thy nameǃ
And tho yon lowan heugh's thy hame,
Thou travels far:
And faith thou's neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate, nor scaur.
Whyles ragin like a roarin lion,
For prey, a' holes and corners tryin;
Whyles, on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin,
Tirling the kirks;
Whyles in the human bosom pryin,
Unseen thou lurks.
For prey, a' holes and corners tryin;
Whyles, on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin,
Tirling the kirks;
Whyles in the human bosom pryin,
Unseen thou lurks.
I've heard my rev'rend Grannie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or whare auld ruin'd castles grey
Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wandirer's way
Wi' eldritch croon!
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or whare auld ruin'd castles grey
Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wandirer'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 bourtries, comin
Wi' heavy groan.
To say her prayers, douce, honest woman,
Aft 'yont the dyke she's heard you hummin,
Wi' eerie drone;
Or, rustlin thro' the bourtries, 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 loch;
Ye, like a rash-bush stood in sight,
Wi' wavin sugh.
The stars shot down wi' sklentin light,
Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright,
Ayont the loch;
Ye, like a rash-bush stood in sight,
Wi' wavin sugh.
The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristled 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.
Each bristled 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 grin, and wither'd hags
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs and dizzy crags,
Wi' wicked speed:
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
Owre howkit dead.
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs and dizzy crags,
Wi' wicked speed:
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
Owre howkit dead.
Thence countra wives, wi' toil and pain,
May plunge and plunge the kirn in vain;
For O the yellow treasure's taen
By witchin skill;
And dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gane
As yell's the Bill.
May plunge and plunge the kirn in vain;
For O the yellow treasure's taen
By witchin skill;
And dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gane
As yell's the Bill.
Thence mystic knots mak great abuse,
On young Gudemen, fond, keen, and crouse,
When the best wark-loom in the house,
By cantrip wit,
Is instant made no worth a louse,
Just at the bit.
On young Gudemen, fond, keen, and crouse,
When the best wark-loom in 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 jinglin icy-board,
Than Water-kelpies haunt the ford,
By your direction,
And 'nighted travellers are allur'd
To their destruction.
And float the jinglin icy-board,
Than Water-kelpies haunt the ford,
By your direction,
And 'nighted travellers are allur'd
To their destruction.
And aft your moss-traversing Spunkies
Decoy the wight that late and drunk is;
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies,
Delude his eyes,
Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
Ne'er mair to rise.
Decoy the wight that late and 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 and grip
In storms and tempests raise ye up,
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,
Or, strange to tell!
The youngest Brother ye waud whup
Aff straught to hell!
In storms and tempests raise ye up,
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop,
Or, strange to tell!
The youngest Brother ye waud whup
Aff straught to hell!
Lang syne, in Eden's bonny yard,
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,
And a' the soul of love they shar'd,
The raptur'd hour,
Sweet on the fragrant, flowery swaird,
In shady bow'r!
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd,
And a' the soul of love they shar'd,
The raptur'd hour,
Sweet on the fragrant, flowery swaird,
In shady bow'r!
Then you, ye auld sneak-drawin dog!
Ye came to Paradise incog.,
And play'd on man a' cursed brogue,
(Black be your fa'!)
And gied the infant warld a shog,
'Maist ruin'd a'.
Ye came to Paradise incog.,
And play'd on man a' cursed brogue,
(Black be your fa'!)
And gied the infant warld a shog,
'Maist ruin'd a'.
D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz
Mang better fock,
And sklented on the man of Uz
Your spiteful joke?
Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz
Mang better fock,
And sklented on the man of Uz
Your spiteful joke?
And how you got him in your thrall,
And brak him out o' house and hall,
While scabs and blotches did him gall,
Wi' bitter claw,
And loos'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked scawl,
Was warst ava?
And brak him out o' house and hall,
While scabs and blotches did him gall,
Wi' bitter claw,
And loos'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked scawl,
Was warst ava?
But a' your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares and fechtin fierce,
Sin that day Michael[1] did you pierce,
Down to this time,
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,
In prose or rhyme.
Your wily snares and fechtin fierce,
Sin that day Michael[1] did you pierce,
Down to this time,
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,
In prose or rhyme.
And 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,
And cheat you yet.
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,
And cheat you yet.
But fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben;
O wad ye tak a thought and men',
Ye ablins might—I dinna ken—
Still hae a stake—
I'm wae to think upon your den,
Ev'n for your sake.
O wad ye tak a thought and men',
Ye ablins might—I dinna ken—
Still hae a stake—
I'm wae to think upon your den,
Ev'n for your sake.
- ↑ Vide Milton, Book IV.