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17
Warlocks and witches in a dance,
Nae cotillion, brent-new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.—
At winnock bunker, in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o’ beast;
A touzie tyke, black, grim and large,
To gie them music was his charge.
He screw’d his pipes, and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.—
Coffins stood round like open preses,
That shew’d the dead in their last dresses,
And (by some devilish cantrip slight)
Each in its cauld hand held a light—
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderer's banes in gibbet-airns;
Twa span-long, wee unchristened bairns;
A thief, new cutted frae a rape,
Wi’ his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi’ blud red-rusted;
Five scimitars, wi’ murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
A knife a father’s throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son of life bereft,
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft;
With mair o’ horrible and awfu’
Which e’en to name wad be unlawfu’
Three lawyers’ tongues, turn’d inside out.
Wi' lies seem'd like a beggar’s cloot;
Three Priests’ hearts, rotten, black as muck,
Lay stinking, vile, in every neuk.—
Nae cotillion, brent-new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.—
At winnock bunker, in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o’ beast;
A touzie tyke, black, grim and large,
To gie them music was his charge.
He screw’d his pipes, and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.—
Coffins stood round like open preses,
That shew’d the dead in their last dresses,
And (by some devilish cantrip slight)
Each in its cauld hand held a light—
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderer's banes in gibbet-airns;
Twa span-long, wee unchristened bairns;
A thief, new cutted frae a rape,
Wi’ his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi’ blud red-rusted;
Five scimitars, wi’ murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
A knife a father’s throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son of life bereft,
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft;
With mair o’ horrible and awfu’
Which e’en to name wad be unlawfu’
Three lawyers’ tongues, turn’d inside out.
Wi' lies seem'd like a beggar’s cloot;
Three Priests’ hearts, rotten, black as muck,
Lay stinking, vile, in every neuk.—
