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Now Tam, 0 Tam! had thae been queans A' plump and strapping, in their teens; Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies, For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies!

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Lowping an' flinging on a crummock,
I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

But Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie. There was ae winsome wench and wawlie, That night enlisted in the core, (Lang after kend on Carrick shore; For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear,) Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude tho' sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie. Ah! little kend thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi’ twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches,) Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!

But here my muse her wing maun cour ; Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade she was and strang,) And how Tam stood like ane bewitch'd, And thought his very een enrich'd ; Even Satan glowr’d, and fidg'd fu’ fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main; 'Till first ae caper, syné anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither,

And roars out, “ Weel done, Cutty-sark !”
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.


As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose ;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When “ Catch the thief !” resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
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 will 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 she dare na cross.
But ere the key-stane they could make,
The fient a tale she had to shake !
For Nannie, far above the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle ;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle-
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain


tail: 'The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

* 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 bis going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back.

Now, wha this tale of truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed:
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear,
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.



Inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art,

And blasted be thy 'murder-aiming eye ;

May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,

The bitter little of that life remains :
No more the thickening brakes and verdant

To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.

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, I, 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 hap

less fate.

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TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, On crowning his bust at Ednam, Roxburghshire,

with bays.

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,

Unfolds her tender mantle green, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,

Or tunes Eolian strains between :

While Summer with a matron grace

Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace

The progress of the spiky blade :

While Autumn, benefactor kind,

By Tweed erects his-aged head, And sees, with self-approving mind,

Each creature on his bounty fed :

While maniac Winter rages o'er

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows :

So long, sweet Poet of the year,

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; While Scotia, with exulting tear,

Proclaims that Thomson was her son.



Here sowter **** in death does sleep ;

To b-ll, if he's gane thither,

Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,

He'll haud it weel thegither.


Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes:

O death, it's my opinion,
Thou ne'er took such a blath'rin b-tch

Into thy dark dominion !


Hic jacet wee Johnnie.

Whoe'er thou art, O, reader, know,

That death has murder'd Johnnie ! An' here his body lies fu’ low

For saul he ne'er had ony.


O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains,

Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,

The tender father, and the gen'rous friend.

The pitying heart that felt for human woe;

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride ; The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;

“For ev'n his failings lean'd to'virtue's side*.”

• Goldsmith.

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