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Alas! nae mair he'll them molest!

Tam Samson's dead!

When August winds the heather wave,
And sportsmen wander by yon grave,
Three volleys let his memory crave,

O' pouther an' lead,

Till Echo answer frae her cave,

"Tam Samson's dead!"

Heav'n rest his saul whare'er he be!
Is th' wish o' mony mae than me:
He had twa fauts, or maybe three,

Yet what remead?

Ae social, honest man want we:

Tam Samson's dead!


Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies

Ye canting zealots, spare him!

If honest worth in Heaven rise,
Ye'll mend or ye win near him.


Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly
Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie;3

Tell ev'ry social honest billie

To cease his grievin';

For, yet unskaithed by Death's gleg gullie. Tam Samson's leevin'!


HAIL, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie!
Tho' fortune's road be rough an' hilly
To every fiddling, rhyming billie,

We never heed,

But take it like the unback'd filly,

Proud o' her speed.

3 Kilmarnock.-R. B.

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ng, sprattle


lpless thing!
is o' spring,
ee sing,

t comes o' thee?

r thy chittering wing,

'close thy e'e?

ering errands toil'd,

vage homes exil'd,

roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd

My heart forgets,

the tempest wild

Sore on you beats!

in her midnight reign,
i, view'd the dreary plain;
ng thoughts, a pensive train,
Rose in my soul,

my ear this plantive strain,
Slow, solemn, stole:-

ye winds, with heavier gust!
thou bitter-biting frost!

ye chilly, smothering snows!

our rage, as now united, shows

hard unkindness unrelenting,

reful malice unrepenting,

heaven-illumin'd Man on brother Man bestows!

tern Oppression's iron grip,

Or mad Ambition's gory hand,

nding, like blood-hounds from the slip,

Woe, Want, and Murder o'er a land!


When, idly goavin', whiles we saunter,
Yirr! fancy barks, awa we canter,

Up hill, down brae, till some mischanter,
Some black bog-hole,

Arrests us; then the scathe an' banter

We're forced to thole.

Hale be your heart! hale be your fiddle! Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, To cheer you through the weary widdle O' this wild warl',

Until you on a crummock driddle,

A grey hair'd carl.

Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon, Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune, And screw your temper-pins aboon

A fifth or mair

The melancholious, lazy croon

O' cankrie care.

May still your life from day to day,
Nae "lente largo" in the play,

But "allegretto forte" gay,

Harmonious flow,

A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey

Encore! Bravo!

A blessing on the cheery gang
Wha dearly like a jig or sang,
An' never think o' right an' wrang

By square an' rule,

But, as the clegs o' feeling stang,

Are wise or fool.

My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, Wha count on poortith as disgrace;

Their tuneless hearts,

To a' their parts.

May fireside discords jar a base

But come, your hand, my careless brither,
I' th' ither warl', if there's anither,
An' that there is, I've little swither
About the matter;

We, cheek for chow, shall jog thegither,
I'se ne'er bid better.

We've faults and failings-granted clearly,
We're frail backsliding mortals merely,
Eve's bonie squad, priests wyte them sheerly
For our grand fa';

But still, but still, I like them dearly-
God bless them a'l

Ochone for poor Castalian drinkers,
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers!
The witching, curs'd, delicious blinkers
Hae put me hyte,

And gart me weet my waukrife winkers,
Wi' girnin' spite.

But by yon moon!—and that's high swearinAn' every star within my hearin!

An' by her een wha was a dear ane!

I'll ne'er forget;

I hope to gie the jads a clearin

In fair play yet.

My loss I mourn, but not repent it;
I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it;
Ance to the Indies I were wonted,

Some cantraip hour

By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted;

Then vive l'amour!

Faites mes baissemains respectueuses,

To sentimental sister Susie,

And honest Lucky; no to roose you,

Ye may be proud,

That sic a couple Fate allows ye,

To grace your blood.

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