A moor

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

"

land

grave

Тоа musical friend

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

HALL, 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 unbrack'd filly,

Proud o' her speed.

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 vile 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, sairie 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' blessings 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,

May fireside discords jar a base

To a' their parts!

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'!

Fiddlers and rhymers

Prospective consolation

Ochon 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 swearin

An' 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 cantrip hour

By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted;

Then vive l'amour!

Faites mes baissemains respectueusè

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

Nae mair at present can I measure,

blood.

An' trowth! my rhymin ware's nae treasure;
But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure,

Be't light, be't dark,

Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure

To call at Park.

ROBERT BURNS.

Mossgiel, 30th October 1786.

A WINTER NIGHT

"Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm!
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these? "SHAKESPEARE.

WHEN biting Boreas, fell and dour,
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r ;
When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r,
Far south the lift,

Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r,
Or whirling drift:

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up-choked,
Wild-eddying swirl;

Or, thro' the mining outlet bocked,

Down headlong hurl:

List'ning the doors an' winnocks rattle,
I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle

O' winter war,

And thro' the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle
Beneath a scar.

Ilk happing bird,--wee, helpless thing!
That, in the merry months o' spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,

What comes o' thee?

Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing,
An' close thy e'e?

Ev'n you, on murdering errands toil'd,

Lone from your savage homes exil❜d,

A winter night