For mony a beast to dead she shot, But here my muse her wing maun cour; And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!" And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, As As open pussie's mortal foes, When " Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; Wi' mony an eldritch skreech and hollow. Ah, Tam! Ah Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! Kate soon wil be a woefu' woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane of the brig; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross. But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake! For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie's mettle Ae *It is a well-known fact, that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any farther than the middle of the next running stream.-It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back. Ae spring brought off her master hale, Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, ON ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, Which a fellow had just shot at. INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art, Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. Seek, Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, No more of rest, but now thy dying bed! The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. Oft as by winding Nith, 1, musing, wait The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. ADDRESS |