an eldritch, stoor “quaick, quaick,”
amang the springs,
awa ye squatter'd like a drake,
on whistlin' wings.
let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags,
tell how wi' you, weed nags,
they skim the muirs an' dizzy crags,
wi' wicked speed;
and in kirk-yards reheir leagues,
owre howkit dead.
thence tra wives, wi' toil and pain,
may plunge an' pluhe kirn in vain;
for oh! the yellow treasure's ta'en
by wit' skill;
an' dawtit, tint hawkie's gane
as yell's the bill.
thence mystiak gr
Address To The Deil(4/8)