O wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us

To see oursels as ithers see us!

It wad frae monie a blunder free us,

An foolish notion:

What airs in dress an gait wad lea’e us,

An ev’n devotion!

ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB

Long life, my lord, an health be yours,

Unskaith’d by hungerd Highland boors!

Lord grant nae duddle, desperate beggar

Wi dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger

May win auld Scotland o a life

She likes – as lambkins like a knife!

Faith! you and Applecross were right

To keep the Highland hounds in sight!

I doubt na! they wad bid nae better

Than let them ance out owre the water!

Then up amang thae lakes and seas,

They’ll mak what rules and laws they please:

Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin,

May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin;

Some Washington again may head them,

Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them;

Till (God knows what may be effected

When by such heads and hearts directed)

Poor dunghill sons of dirt, an mire

May to Patrician rights aspire!

Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville,

To watch and premier o’er the pack vile!

An whare will ye get Howes and Clintons,

To bring them to a right repentence?

To cowe the rebel generation,

An save the honor o the nation?

They, an be damn’d! what right hae they

To meat or sleep, or light o day?

Far less to riches, pow’r, or freedom,

But what your lordship likes to gie them?

But hear, my lord! Glengary, hear!

Your hand’s owre light on them, I fear:

Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,

I canna say but they do gaylles:

They lay aside a’ tender mercies,

An tirl the hullions to the birses;

Yet while they’re only poind and herriet,

They’ll keep their stubborn Highland spirit.

But smash them! crush them a’ to spails,

An rot the dyvors i’ the jails!

The young dogs swinge them to the labour:

Let wark an hunger mak them sober!

The hizzies, if they’re aughtlins fawsont,

Let them in Drury-lane be lesson’d!

An if the wives an dirty brats

Come thiggin at your doors an yetts,

Flaffin wi duds, an grey wi beas’,

Frightin awa your ducks an geese;

Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,

The langest thong, the fiercest growler,

An gar the tatter’d gypsies pack

Wi a’ their bastards on their back!

Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,

An in my ‘house at hame’ to greet you;

Wi common lords ye shanna mingle,

The benmost neuk beside the ingle,

At my right han’ assigned your seat,

’Tween Herod’s hip an Polycrate;

Or (if you on your station tarrow),

Between Almagro and Mzarro,

A seat, I’m sure ye’re well deservin’t;

An till ye come – your humble servant,

– BEELZEBUB

TAM O’ SHANTER
A Tale

Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this Buke –

– GAWIN DOUGLAS

When chapman billies leave the street,

And drouthy neebors, neebors meet;

As market-days are wearing late,