His kintra’s blude it winna thow:
The hettest soap-suds o’ perdition
Canna out thae stains be washing.
Ae devil roar’d, till hearse and roopit,
‘He’s pyking the gowd frae Satan’s pu’pit!’
Anither roar’d, wi’ eldritch yell,
‘He’s howking the keystane out o’ hell,
To damn us mair wi’ God’s day-light!’
And he doukit i’ the caudrons out o’ sight.
He stole auld Satan’s brunstane leister,