I doubt na fortune may you shore Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore, And band upon his breastie : His lexicons and grammars; promise prim Some gapin' glowrin' country laird staring wrestle May claw his lug, and straik his beard, ear Forgive the Bard! my fond regard And fructify your amours, flatter TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY.1 "An honest man's the noblest work of God." - POPE. HAS auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? 66 3 'Na, waur than a'!" cries ilka chiel — Kilmarnock lang may grunt and grane, 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 When Winter muffles up his cloak, 1 When to the loch the curlers 1 flock, Wha will they station at the cock? blow mark He was the king o' a' the core, In time o' need; proper line But now he lags on Death's hog-score * Now safe the stately sawmont sail, 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 But, och he gaed, and ne'er returned! In vain auld age his body batters; dress Now every auld wife, greetin', clatters weeping Tam Samson's dead! Owre many a weary hag he limpit, break in a moss Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, feud When at his heart he felt the dagger, "L-, five!" he cried, and owre did stagger— Tam Samson's dead! Ilk hoary hunter mourned a brither; Where Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, Tam Samson's dead! There low he lies, in lasting rest; Alas! nae mair he'll them molest! When August winds the heather wave, Till Echo answer frae her cave, Heaven rest his saul, where'er he be ! nonsense |