Damnant quod non intelligunt.
[1
PRESCRIPT
OF THE
* *
What may this mean,
That thou, dead corse, again, in complete steel,
Revisit’st thus the glimpses of the moon,
Making night hideous; and we fools of nature,
So horridly shake our disposition,
With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls!
An’now auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinking’,
A certail *Ghoul* is rantin’, drinkin’,
Some luckless night send him linking,’
To your black pit;
But, faith! he’ll turn a corner jinkin’,
An’ cheat you yet.
