HAB'S DOOR,

OR THE TEMPLE OF TERROR.

Now swelled to madness, round the room
Hab like a fury prances;
While each successive comer's doom
Is fixt to hell as chance is.
His agents a', wi' sullen gloom
Mute, measure, as he dances
With horrid rage, damning the loom,
And weavers; soon he scances
Their claith this day.

His fate met out, awa' wi' speed
The plackless sinner trudges;
Glad to escape the killing dread
O' sic unfeeling judges.
His greetin' weans mourn out for bread,
The hopeless wife now grudges;
And ruin gathers round his head,
In many a shape that huge is,
And grim this day.

And now, ye pridefu' wabster chiels,
How dare ye stand afore him,
And say he aften gi'es to deils,
Men that's by far before him;
Ye mock his skill o' claith and keels,
And frae douce christians score him,
But haith gin he kens this as weel,
To coin oaths I'se encore him
Aloud this day.

Go on—great, glorious Hab, go on—
Rave owre the trembling wretches;
Mind neither music, sex, nor one,
But curse them a' for bitches;
While echo answers every groan,
That their deep murmur fetches;
Damn every poor man's worth, and moan,
For that exalts like riches,
Bright souls as thine.

But when that serious day or night
That sure to come draws near;
When thy ain wab, a dismal sight,
Maun to be judged appear.
Ha, Hab ! I doubt thy weight owre light,
Will gar thee girn and swear;
An' thou'lt gang down the brimstane height,
Wed guarded flank and rear,
To hell that day.