The Masonic Poems of Bro. Robert Burns

O Thou, whatever title suit thee!
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim an’ sooty
Clos’d under hatches,
Spairges [splashes] about the brunstane cootie [brimstone dish],
To scaud [scald] poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie [old hangman], for a wee [while],
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 [known], an’ noted is thy name;
An’ tho’ yon lowan heugh’s [moaning hollow] thy hame [home],
Thou travels far;
An’ faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame,
Nor blate [bashful] nor scaur [afraid].

Whyles [sometimes], ranging like a roaring lion,
For prey, a’ holes an’ corners tryin;
Whyles, on the strong-win’d Tempest flyin,
Tirlan [stripping/attacking] the kirks;
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin,
Unseen thou lurks.

I’ve heard my rev’rend Graunie [grannie] say,
In lanely [lonely] 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 [unearthly eerie moan].

When twilight did my Graunie summon,
To say her pray’rs, douse [sober], honest woman,
Aft ’yont the dyke she’s heard you bumman [beyond],
Wi’ eerie drone;
Or, rustling, thro’ the boorties [alder trees] coman [coming],
Wi’ heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
The stars shot down wi’ sklentan [slanting] light,
Wi’ you, mysel, I gat a fright
Ayont [beyond] the lough [loch];
Ye, like a rash-buss [bunch of rushes], stood in sight,
Wi’ waving sugh [moan]:

The cudgel in my nieve [fist] did shake,
Each bristl’d hair stood like a stake,
When wi’ an eldritch, stoor, quaick, quaick [unearthly harsh, duck quack],
Amang the springs,
Awa [away] ye squatter’d like a drake,
On whistling wings.

Let Warlocks grim, an’ wither’d Hags,
Tell, how wi’ you, an ragweed nags,
They skim the muirs an’ dizzy crags,
Wi’ wicked speed;
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
Owre [over] howcket dead [those raised from the dead].

Thence, countra [country] 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 [petted], twal-pint [12 pint] Hawkie’s [cow] gane [gone],
As yell’s the Bill [bull].

Thence, mystic knots mak great absue,
On Young-Guidman, fond, keen an’ croose [over confident];
When the best warklum [work-tool] i’ the house,
By cantraip [magic] wit,
Is instant made no worth a louse,
Just at the bit.

When thowes [thawes] dissove the snawy hoord [snowy hoard],
An’ float the jinglan icy boord [waters surface],
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 [demons]
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 [more] 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 [long ago] 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 [grassy edge],
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 [shake],
’Maist ruin’d a’.

D’ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi’ reeket duds [clothes], an’ reestet gizz [scorched wig],
Ye did present your smoutie phiz [smutty face]
’Mang better folk,
An’ sklented [squinted] on the man of Uzz
Your spitefu’ joke?

An’ how ye gat him i’ your thrall [spell],
An’ brak [broke] 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 [scold wife]
Was warst ava?

But a’ your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an’ fechtin [fighting] fierce,
Sin’ that day Michael did you pierce,
Down to this time,
Wad ding [would beat] a’ Lallan [Lowland Scots] tongue, or Erse [Irish],
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 [hurrying],
To your black pit;
But faith! he’ll turn a corner jinkan [dodging],
An’ cheat you yet.

But fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben!
O wad ye tak a thought an’ men’!
Ye aiblins [perhaps] might—I dinna ken—
Still hae a stake—
I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,
Ev’n for your sake.