TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY

Nae honest, worthy man need care
To meet with noble youthful Daer,

For he but meets a brother.

Masonic Song.1

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 Mackinlay3 thrawn his heel?

Perhaps of Oct. 26, 1787.

a twisted.

Semple of Beltree, in his elegy on Habbie Simpson, again supplies the model.

The piece first appeared in the edition of 1787.

3 A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide The Ordination,' stanza ii.—R. B.

TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY

Or Robertson1 again grown weel,

To preach an' read?
"Na, waur than a'!" cries ilka chiel,"
"Tam Samsor's dead!"

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane,b
An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane,
An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean,d
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,

TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY

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, crouselyd 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 hagh he limpit,
An' aye the tither shot he thumpit,
Till coward Death behind him jumpit,
Wi' deadly feidi;

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 stagger-
Tam Samson's dead!

TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY

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! uae mair he'll them molest!

Tam Samson's dead!1

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 bel
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' Killie2;

EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN

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.1

HAIL, thairm b-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,

с

Proud o' her speed.

whiles we saunter,

Yirr! fancy barks, awa we canter,

When, idly goavin,

Up hill, down brae,

till some mischanter,d
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 widdle82
O' this wild warl'.

Until you on a crummock driddle,

A grey hair'd carl.

Come wealth, come poortithi 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

Ö' cankrie care.

d mischance.
• bear.
I poverty.

⚫ staring.
h walking-staff.

2 These three lines are repeated from the Second Epistle to Davie, p. 109.