Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this buke.
WHEN champan billies leave the street,
An' drouthy neebours, neebours meet,
As market-days are wearin late,
An' fouk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousin at the nappy,
An' gettin fou an' unco happy,
We thing na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, an' styles,
That lie between us an' our hame,
Whar sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gatherin her brows like gatherin storm,
Nursin her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses
For honest men an' bonny lasses.)
O Tam! hast thou but been sac wise,
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A bletherin, blusterin, drucken blellum ;
That frae November till October,
Ae market day thou was nae sober;
That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith an' thee gat roarin fou on,
That at the L-d's house, ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday.
She prophesy'd that late or soon,
Thou wad be found deep drown'd in Doon;
Or catch'd wi' warlocks i' the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How many lengthen'd sage advices, The husband frae the wife dispises!
But to our tale: Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right;
Fast by an ingle, bleezin finely,
Wi' reamin swas that drank divinely
An' at his elbow, Souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter;
An' ay the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious:
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rare an' rustle,
Tam didna mind the storm a whistle,
Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy: As bees filee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!
But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow-falls in a river,
A moment white-then melts for ever;
Or like the borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form,
Evanishin amid the storm.— ·
Nae man can tether time or tide;
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ;
An' sic a night he taks the road in,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
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