by Robert Burns
O’ Sinners and o’ Lasses!
Their hearts o’ stane, gin night are gane
As saft as ony flesh is.
There’s some are fou o’ love divine;
There’s some are fou o’ brandy;
An’ monie jobs that day begin,
May end in Houghmagandie
Some ither day.
A Guy Named Satan
In one appearance, Boykin [Lieutenant General William G. Boykin, the United States Deputy Undersecretary of Defense for Intelligence] told a religious group in Oregon that Islamic extremists hate the United States ‘because we’re a Christian nation, because our foundation and our roots are Judeo-Christian … And the enemy is a guy named Satan.’
CBS News, August 2004
Address to the Deil
O Prince, O chief of many throned pow’rs,
That led th’ embattl’d Seraphim to war—
Milton
O thou, whatever title suit thee!
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sooty
Clos’d under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretches!
Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An’ let poor, damned bodies bee;
I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie,
Ev’n to a deil,
To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me,
An’ hear us squeel!
Great is thy pow’r, an’ great thy fame;
Far ken’d, an’ noted is thy name;
An’ tho’ yon lowan 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,
Tirlan the kirks;
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,
Unseen thou lurks.
I’ve heard my rev’rend Graunie 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 Graunie summon,
To say her pray’rs, douse, honest woman,
Aft ’yont the dyke she’s heard you bumman,
Wi’ eerie drone;
Or, rustling, thro’ the boortries coman,
Wi’ heavy groan.
Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
The stars shot down wi’ sklentan light,
Wi’ you, mysel, I gat a fright
Ayont the lough;
Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight,
Wi’ wavin’ sugh:
The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristl’d hair stood like a stake,
When wi’ an eldritch, stoor, quaick, quaick,
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 howcket dead.
Thence, countra wives, wi’ toil an’ pain,
May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in vain;
For Och! the yellow treasure’s taen,
By witching skill;
An’ dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie’s gane
As yell’s the Bill.
Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse,
On Young-Guidmen, fond, keen an’ croose;
When the best warklum i’ the house,
By cantraip wit,
Is instant made no worth a louse,
Just at the bit.
When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
An’ float the jinglan icy boord,
Then, Water-kelpies haunt the foord,
By your direction,
An’ nighted Trav’llers are allur’d
To their destruction.
An’ aft your moss-traversing Spunkies
Decoy the wight that late an’ drunk is;
The bleezan, curst, mischievous monkies
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.
Lang syne in Eden’s bonie yard,
When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d,
An’ all the Soul of Love they shar’d,
The raptur’d hour,
Sweet on the fragrant, flow’ry swaird,
In shady bow’r:
Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog!
Ye cam to Paradise incog,
An’ play’d on a man a cursed brogue,
(Black be your fa’!)
An’ gied the infant warld a shog,
’Maist ruin’d a’.
D’ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi’ reeket duds, an’ reestet 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 i’ your thrall,
An’ brak him out o’ house an’ hal’,
While scabs an’ botches did him gall,
Wi’ bitter claw,
An’ lows’d his ill-tongu’d wicked Scawl
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 thinkan,
A certain Bardie’s rantin, drinkin,
Some luckless hour will send him linkan,
To your black pit;
But faith! he’ll turn a corner jinkan,
An’ cheat you yet.
But fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an’ men’!
Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—
Still hae a stake—
I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,
Ev’n for your sake.
Shakespeare is just as adept as Burns when brewing up a vernacular storm, and he too is unshy of showing Death as an experienced hand to be met with on the road. Dr Hornbook is a village quack whose remedies threaten to put the hooded laddie with the scythe out of work, but the real joy here is found in the deployment of vital old Scots words that have now suffered a death themselves in the common speech. Here we have kittle (‘to excite’), a spleuchan (‘a skin pouch for tobacco or money’) and an eldritch laugh – the cackling of elves, which is ghostly, strange, unearthly.
Death and Doctor Hornbook—A True Story
Some books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn’d:
Ev’n Ministers they hae been kenn’d,
In holy rapture,
A rousing whid, at times, to vend,
And nail’t wi’ Scripture.
But this that I am gaun to tell,
Which lately on a night befel,
Is just as true’s the Deil’s in hell,
Or Dublin city:
That e’er he nearer comes oursel
’S a muckle pity.
The Clachan yill had made me canty,
I was na fou, but just had plenty;
I stacher’d whyles, but yet took tent ay
To free the ditches;
An’ hillocks, stanes, an’ bushes kenn’d ay
Frae ghaists an’ witches.
The rising Moon began to glowr
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre;
To count her horns, wi’ a’ my pow’r,
I set mysel,
But whether she had three or four,
I cou’d na tell.
I was come round about the hill,
And todlin down on Willie’s mill,
Setting my staff wi’ a’ my skill,
To keep me sicker;
Tho’ leeward whyles, against my will,
I took a bicker.
I there wi’ Something does forgather,
That pat me in an eerie swither;
An awfu’ scythe, out-owre ae shouther,
Clear-dangling, hang;
A three-tae’d leister on the ither
Lay, large an’ lang.
Its stature seem’d lang Scotch ells twa,
The queerest shape that e’er I saw,
For fient a wame it had ava,
And then its shanks,
They were as thin, as sharp an’ sma’
As cheeks o’ branks.
‘Guid-een,’ quo’ I; ‘Friend! hae ye been mawin,
When ither folk are busy sawin?’
1
I seem’d to mak a kind o’ stan’,
But naething spak;
At length, says I, ‘Friend, whare ye gaun,
Will ye go back?’
It spak right howe—‘My name is Death,
But be na’ fley’d.’—Quoth I, ‘Guid faith,
Ye’re maybe come to stap my breath;
But tent me, billie;
I red ye weel, tak care o’ skaith,
See, there’s a gully!’
‘Gudeman,’ quo’ he, ‘put up your whittle,
I’m no design’d to try its mettle;
But if I did, I wad be kittle
To be mislear’d,
I wad na’ mind it, no that spittle
Out-owre my beard.’
‘Weel, weel!’ says I, ‘a bargain be’t;
Come, gies your hand, an’ sae we’re gree’t;
We’ll ease our shanks an’ tak a seat,
Come, gies your news!
This while ye hae been mony a gate,
At mony a house.’
2
‘Ay, ay!’ quo’ he, an’ shook his head,
‘It’s e’en a lang, lang time indeed
Sin’ I began to nick the thread,
An’ choke the breath:
Folk maun do something for their bread,
An’ sae maun Death.
‘Sax thousand years are near hand fled
Sin’ I was to the butching bred,
And mony a scheme in vain’s been laid,
To stap or scar me;
Till ane Hornbook’s
3
ta’en up the trade,
And faith! he’ll waur me.
‘Ye ken Jock Hornbook i’ the Clachan,
Deil mak his king’s-hood in a spleuchan!
He’s grown sae weel acquaint wi’ Buchan,
4
And ither chaps,
The weans haud out their fingers laughin,
And pouk my hips.
‘See, here’s a scythe, and there’s a dart,
They hae pierc’d mony a gallant heart;
But Doctor Hornbook, wi’ his art
And cursed skill,
Has made them baith no worth a fart,
Damn’d haet they’ll kill!
‘’Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen,
I threw a noble throw at ane;
Wi’ less, I’m sure, I’ve hundreds slain;
But deil-ma-care!
It just play’d dirl on the bane,
But did nae mair.
‘Hornbook was by, wi’ ready art,
And had sae fortify’d the part,
That when I looked to my dart,
It was sae blunt,
Fient haet o’t wad hae pierc’d the heart
Of a kail-runt.
‘I drew my scythe in sic a fury,
I nearhand cowpit wi’ my hurry,
But yet the bauld Apothecary
Withstood the shock;
I might as weel hae try’d a quarry
O’ hard whin-rock.
‘Ev’n them he canna get attended,
Altho’ their face he ne’er had kend it,
Just shit in a kail-blade and send it,
As soon’s he smells’t,
Baith their disease, and what will mend it,
At once he tells’t.
‘And then a’ doctor’s saws and whittles,
Of a’ dimensions, shapes, an’ mettles,
A’ kinds o’ boxes, mugs, an’ bottles,
He’s sure to hae;
Their Latin names as fast he rattles
As A B C.
‘Calces o’ fossils, earths, and trees;
True Sal-marinum o’ the seas;
The Farina of beans and pease,
He has’t in plenty;
Aqua-fontis, what you please,
He can content ye.
‘Forbye some new, uncommon weapons,
Urinus Spiritus of capons;
Or Mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings,
Distill’d per se;
Sal-alkali o’ Midge-tail clippings,
And mony mae.’
‘Waes me for Johnny Ged’s-Hole
5
now,’
Quoth I, ‘if that thae news be true!
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew,
Sae white an’ bonie,
Nae doubt they’ll rive it wi’ the plew;
They’ll ruin Johnie!’
The creature grain’d an eldritch laugh,
And says, ‘Ye needna yoke the pleugh,
Kirk-yards will soon be till’d eneugh,
Tak ye nae fear:
They’ll a be trench’d wi’ mony a sheugh,
In twa-three year.
‘Whare I kill’d ane, a fair strae-death,
By loss o’ blood, or want o’ breath,
This night I’m free to tak my aith,
That Hornbook’s skill
Has clad a score i’ their last claith,
By drap and pill.
‘An honest Wabster to his trade,
Whase wife’s twa nieves were scarce weel-bred,
Gat tippence-worth to mend her head,