[From Miscellaneous Poems by Francis Boyle (Belfast, 1811)]
ARE ye strange, frightfu' chiel, auld Nick,
That's come to herd for Charlie,
To hinder the sma' birds to pick,
The corn that ripens early.
Or some vile wretch clad in disguise,
That swings folk in a tether;
Wha at Downpatrick last assize
Did toom three aff the lether.
Or are you just a true scarecraw,
Wi' clout an' auld sca't caster,
That's come to flye the birds awa',
For picking aff your master.
They darna look you in the face,
Nor yet about you prattle;
You'll save poor Charlie mony a race,
That he ran wi' his rattle.