Then you, ye auld, sneck-drawing dog! Ye came to Paradise _incog._, An' played on man a cursèd brogue, (Black be your fa'!) An' gied the infant world a shog, 'Maist ruined a'. D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, Wi' reekit duds and reestit gizz, Ye did present your smoutie phiz 'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man of Uz Your spitefu' joke? An' how ye gat him in your thrall, An' brak him out o' house an' hall, While scabs and blotches did him gall Wi' bitter claw, An' lowsed his ill-tongued wicked scaw, Was warst ava? But a' your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce, Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, Down to this time, Wad ding a Lallan tongue, 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', And cheat you yet. But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben! O wad ye tak a thought and men'! Ye aiblins might--I dinna ken-- Still hae a stake-- I'm wae to think upon yon den, Even for your sake!" TAM O' SHANTER. "When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, As market days are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak the gate; While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' gettin' fou an' unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, an' styles, That lie between us and our hame, Where sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter; (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a toun surpasses, For honest men and bonny lasses.) O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise, As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; That frae November till October Ae market-day thou was na sober; That ilka melder, wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; That at the L--d's house, even on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesy'd that, late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises!