I've been at drucken writers' feasts,

Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests-
Wi' rev'rence be it spoken!—

I've even join'd the honour'd jorum,
When mighty Squireships of the quorum,
Their hydra drouth did sloken.

But wi' a Lord!-stand out my shin,

A Lord-a Peer-an Earl's son!

Up higher yet, my bonnet

An' sic a Lord!-lang Scotch ells twa,
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a',

As I look o'er my sonnet.

But O for Hogarth's magic pow'r!
To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r,

An' how he star'd and stammer'd,

When, goavin, as if led wi' branks,
An' stumpin on his ploughman shanks,
He in the parlour hammer'd.

I sidling shelter'd in a nook,

An' at his Lordship steal't a look,

Like some portentous omen;
Except good sense and social glee,
An' (what surpris'd me) modesty,

I markèd nought uncommon.

I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great,
The gentle pride, the lordly state,

The arrogant assuming;
The fient a pride, nae pride had he,
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see,

Mair than an honest ploughman.

Then from his Lordship I shall learn,
Henceforth to meet with unconcern

One rank as weel's another;
Nae honest, worthy man need care
To meet with noble youthful Daer,

For he but meets a brother.

MASONIC SONG

Tune-" Shawn-boy," or Over the water to Charlie."

YE Sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie,
To follow the noble vocation;

Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another
To sit in that honourèd station.

I've little to say, but only to pray,

As praying's the ton of your fashion;

A prayer from the Muse you well may excuse
'Tis seldom her favourite passion.

Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide,
Who marked each element's border;

Who formed this frame with beneficent aim,
Whose sovereign statute is order:—

Within this dear mansion, may wayward Contention
Or withered Envy ne'er enter;

May secrecy round be the mystical bound,
And brotherly Love be the centre!

TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY

"An honest man's the noblest work of God"-POPE.

When this worthy old sportsman went out, last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, "the last of his fields," and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph.-R. B., 1787.

HAS auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?

Or great Mackinlay' thrawn his heel?
Or Robertson again grown weel,

To preach an' read?

"Na' waur than a'! cries ilka chiel,

"Tam Samson's dead!"

1 A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. Ordination," stanza ii.-R. B.

Vide "The

2 Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at that time ailing. For him see also "The Ordination," stanza ix.—R. B.

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane,
An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane,
An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean,
In mourning weed;

To Death she's dearly pay'd the kane-
Tam Samson's dead!

The Brethren, o' the mystic "level" May hing their head in woefu' bevel, While by their nose the tears will revel, Like ony bead;

Death's gien the Lodge an unco devel; Tam Samson's dead!

When Winter muffles up his cloak,
And binds the mire like a rock;
When to the loughs the curlers flock,

Wi' gleesome speed,

Wha will they station at the "cock"?

Tam Samson's dead!

He was the king o' a' the core,

To guard, or draw, or wick a bore,

Or up the rink like

Jehu roar,

In time o' need;

But now he lags on Death's "hog-score'

Tam Samson's dead!

Now safe the stately sawmont sail,
And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail,

And eels, weel-ken'd for souple tail,

And geds for greed,

Since, dark in Death's fish-creel, we wail

Tam Samson dead!

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a';

Ye cootie muircocks, crousely craw;
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw

Withouten dread;

Your mortal fae is now awa;

Tam Samson's dead!

That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd,
Saw him in shooting graith adorn'd,
While pointers round impatient burn'd,
Frae couples free'd;

But och! he gaed and ne'er return'd!
Tam Samson's dead!

In vain auld age his body batters,
In vain the gout his ancles fetters,
In vain the burns cam down like waters,
An acre braid!

Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin, clatters

"Tam Samson's dead!”

Owre mony a weary hag he limpit,
An' aye the tither shot he thumpit,
Till coward Death behind him jumpit,
Wi' deadly feid;
Now he proclaims wi' tout o' trumpet,
"Tam Samson's dead!"

When at his heart he felt the dagger,
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger,
But yet he drew the mortal trigger,

Wi' weel-aimed heed; "L-d, five!" he cry'd, an' owre did staggerTam Samson's dead!

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither;
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father;
Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather,
Marks out his head;

Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, "Tam Samson's Dead!

There, low he lies in lasting rest;
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast.
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest

To hatch an' breed:

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!

THE EPITAPH

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.

PER CONTRA

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!

EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN

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.