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About this Poem 

This poem was published in The Poetical Works of Robert Burns (Oxford University Press, 1904).

Address to the Deil

O thou! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sootie,
                             Clos’d under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
                             To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
An’ let poor damnèd bodies be;
I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie,
                             Ev’n to a deil,
To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me,
                             An’ hear us squeal!

Lang syne, in Eden’s bonnie yard,
When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d,
And 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 man a cursed brogue,
                             (Black be you fa!)
An’ gied the infant warld a shog,
                             ’Maist run’d a’.

D’ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi’ reekit duds, an’ 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 i’ your thrall,
An’ brak him out o’ house an’ hal’,
While scabs an’ blotches 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 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’,
                             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!

This poem is in the public domain.

This poem is in the public domain.

Robert Burns

Robert Burns

Born in Alloway, Scotland, on January 25, 1759, Robert Burns was the author of Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect (1786) and Tam O' Shanter (1795).

by this poet

poem
Is there for honest Poverty 
   That hings his head, an' a' that; 
The coward slave—we pass him by, 
   We dare be poor for a' that! 
For a' that, an' a' that. 
   Our toils obscure an' a' that, 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 
   The Man's the gowd for a' that. 

What though on hamely fare we dine, 
   
poem
Upon that night, when fairies light
On Cassilis Downans dance,
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,
On sprightly coursers prance;
Or for Colean the route is ta'en,
Beneath the moon's pale beams;
There, up the cove, to stray and rove,
Among the rocks and streams
To sport that night.

Among the bonny winding banks
poem
O my luve's like a red, red rose,
    That's newly sprung in June;
O my luve's like the melodie
    That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
    So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
    And the rocks