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;^1

     Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog! 
     Ye cam to Paradise incog,

[Footnote 1:  The verse originally ran:  “Lang syne, in Eden’s happy scene When strappin Adam’s days were green, And Eve was like my bonie Jean, My dearest part, A dancin, sweet, young handsome quean, O’ guileless heart.”]

     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^2 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!

     [Footnote 2:  Vide Milton, Book vi.—­R.  B.]