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.