I doubt na fortune may you shore
Some mim-mou'd pouthered priestie,

Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore,

And band upon his breastie :
But oh what signifies to you

His lexicons and grammars;
The feeling heart's the royal blue,
And that's wi' Willie Chalmers.

promise

prim

Some gapin' glowrin' country laird
May warsle for your favour;

staring

wrestle

May claw his lug, and straik his beard,

ear

Forgive the Bard! my fond regard
For ane that shares my bosom,
Inspires my Muse to gie'm his dues,
For deil a hair I roose him.
May powers aboon unite you soon,

And fructify your amours,
And every year come in mair dear
To you and Willie Chalmers.

flatter

TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY.1

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

HAS auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?
Or great M'Kinlay 2 thrawn his heel?
Or Robertson again grown weel

66

3

'Na, waur than a'!" cries ilka chiel —
Tam Samson's dead!

Kilmarnock lang may grunt and grane,
And sigh, and sob, and greet her lane, alone
And cleed her bairns, man, wife, and clothe

wean,

In mourning weed;

To Death she's dearly paid the kane

Tam Samson's dead!

The brethren o' the mystic level

tribute

May hing their head in woefu' bevel, crook

1 Thomas Samson was one of the poet's Kilmarnock friends -a nursery and seedsman of good credit, a zealous sportsman, and a good fellow.

2 A preacher, a great favourite with the million. See The Ordination, stanza ii. — B.

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

B.

4 For a minister to read his sermons, as often done by those of moderate denomination, is often a cause of great unpopularity in Scotland.

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;

1

When to the loch the curlers 1 flock,
Wi' gleesome speed,

Wha will they station at the cock?
Tam Samson's dead!

blow

mark

He was the king o' a' the core,
To guard, or draw,2 or wick a bore,3
Or up the rink like Jehu roar

In time o' need;

proper line

But now he lags on Death's hog-score *
Tam Samson's dead!

Now safe the stately sawmont sail,
And trouts be-dropped wi' crimson hail,
And eels weel kenned for souple tail,

salmon

1 Curling is a game played on the ice with large round stones. The object of the player is to lay his stone as near the mark as possible, to guard that of his partner, if well laid before, and to strike off that of his antagonist; and the great art in the game is to make the stones bend in towards the mark, when it is so blocked up that they cannot be directed in a straight line. See Jamieson's Dict.

2 Go straight to the mark.

8 Strike a stone in an oblique direction.

4 The hog-score is a line crossing the course (rink), near its extremity: a stone which does not pass it is set aside.

pikes

And geds for greed,

Since dark in Death's fish-creel we wail basket Tam Samson dead!

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a'; whirring partridges Ye cootie moorcocks crously craw; feather-legged Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, hares- tail Withouten dread;

Your mortal fae is now awa'

Tam Samson's dead!

That woefu' morn be ever mourned
Saw him in shootin' graith adorned,
While pointers round impatient burned,
Frae couples freed;

But, och he gaed, and ne'er returned!
Tam Samson's dead!

In vain auld age his body batters;
In vain the gout his ankles fetters;
In vain the burns cam' down like waters
An acre braid!

dress

Now every auld wife, greetin', clatters weeping Tam Samson's dead!

Owre many a weary hag he limpit, break in a moss
And aye the tither shot he thumpit,
Till coward Death behind him jumpit,
Wi' deadly feide;

Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet,
Tam Samson's dead!

feud

When at his heart he felt the dagger,
He reeled his wonted bottle-swagger,
But yet he drew the mortal trigger
Wi' weel-aimed heed;

"L-, five!" he cried, and owre did stagger— Tam Samson's dead!

Ilk hoary hunter mourned a brither;
Ilk sportsman youth bemoaned a father;
Yon auld gray 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 mouldering breast
Some spitefu' 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 and lead,

Till Echo answer frae her cave,
Tam Samson's dead!

Heaven rest his saul, where'er he be !
Is th' wish o' monie mae than me;

nonsense