Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, An' let poor damned bodies be; I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, E'en to a deil, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, An' hear us squeel! Great is thy power, an' great thy fame; Far kenn'd and 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, ranging like a roaring lion, For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin'; Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin' Tirl in 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 prayers, douce, honest woman! Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin', Wi' eerie drone; Or, rustlin, thro' the boortries 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 sough. The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick--quack-- Amang 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, May 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 thows dissolve the snawy hoord, An' float the jinglin icy-boord, Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction; An' sighted trav'lers are allur'd To their destruction. An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is: The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys 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 brother ye wad whip Aff straught to hell!