'A bonnie lass, ye kenn'd her name,
Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame;
She trusts hersel, to hide the shame,

In Hornbook's care;

Horn sent her aff to her lang hame,
To hide it there.

raised, belly

A few miscellaneous poems remain to be quoted. These do not naturally fall into any of the major classes of Burns's work, yet are too

struck

beyond, twelve

got us to our feet

important either for their intrinsic worth or the light they throw on his character and genius to be omitted. The Elegies, of which he wrote many, following, as has been seen, the tradition founded by Sempill of Beltrees, may be exemplified by Tam Samson's Elegy and that on Captain Matthew Henderson. Special phases of Scottish patriotism are expressed in Scotch Drink, and the address To a Haggis; while more personal is A Bard's Epitaph. In this last we have Burns's summing up of his own character, and it closes with his recommendation of the virtue he strove after but could never attain.

twisted

worse, everybody

groan weep alone

clothe, child

rent in kind

TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY

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!'

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 paid the kane,-
Tam Samson's dead!

In curling, to guard is to protect one stone by another in front; to draw is to drive a stone into a good position by striking it with another; to wick a bore is to hit a stone obliquely and send it through between two others.

The line a curling stone must cross to stay in the game.

When at his heart he felt the dagger,
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger,

But yet he drew the mortal trigger

Wi' weel-aim'd heed;

'Lord, five!' he cried, an' owre did stagger; Tam Samson's dead!

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

Where Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether,
"Tam Samson's dead!'

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

To hatch and 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, where'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 ere ye win near him.

nonsense

builds

powder

more

remedy

One