ROBERT Burns addresses the Devil with jaunty panache and a variety of nicknames, mostly irreverent. There’s something very Scottish about this – and also about the way he invokes his granny!

from 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 squeal!

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, grey,

Nod to the moon,

Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way,

Wi’ eldritch croon.

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.