Yestreen I met you on the moor, Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure: Ye geck at me because I’m poor, But fient a hair care I. I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, Because ye hae the name o’ clink, That ye can please me at a wink, Whene’er ye like to try. But sorrow tak him that’s sae mean, Altho’ his pouch o’ coin were clean, Wha follows ony saucy quean That looks sae proud and high. Altho’ a lad were e’er sae smart, If that he want the yellow dirt, Ye’ll cast your head anither airt, And answer him fu’ dry. But if he hae the name o’ gear, Ye’ll fasten to him like a brier, Tho’ hardly he, for sense or lear, Be better than the kye. But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice, Your daddy’s gear maks you sae nice; The deil a ane wad spier your price, Were ye as poor as I. There lives a lass in yonder park, I would na gie her in her sark, For you wi’ a’ your thousand mark; Ye need na look sae high. ADDRESS TO THE DEIL 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 damnèd bodies be; I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie, Ev’n to a deil, To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me, An’ hear us squeal! Great is thy pow’r, an’ great thy fame; Far kenn’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 rangin’ 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 reverend grannie say, In lanely glens ye like to stray; Or, where auld ruin’d castles gray Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way, Wi’ eldritch croon. When twilight did my grannie summon To say her pray’rs, douce, honest woman! Aft yont the dyke 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 sough.