As market-days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' gettin' fou and unco happy,

We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing 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 and bonny lasses).

O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise, As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was na 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 and thee gat roaring fou on; That at the L-d's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesy'd, that late or soon,

Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon;
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in 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 despises !

But to our tale: Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right;
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy erony;
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter;
And aye 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 rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy;
As bees flee 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 the 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 Evanishing 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;
And sic a night he taks the road in,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattlin' showers rose on the blast:
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd;
That night, a child might understand,
The deil had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg-
A better never lifted leg-

Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet;
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry—

By this time he was cross the ford,
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Whare drunken Charlie brak 's neck-bane;
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Whare Mungo's mither hanged hersel.-
Before him Don pours all his floods ;
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods;
The lightnings flash from pole to pole;
Near and more near the thunders roll;
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze;
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing-

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil.-
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,
Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle.
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,
She ventured forward on the light;
And, vow! Tum saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillion brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the cast,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw'd his pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.-

Coffins stood round like open presses,
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;
And by some devilish cantrip slight,
Each in its cauld hand held a light,-
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,

A murderer's banes in gibbet airns:

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns :
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted;
Five scymitars wi' murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
A knife, a father's throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son o' life bereft,
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'.

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: The piper loud and louder blew ; The dancers quick and quicker flew ;

Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main.
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a' thegither,
And roars out, “Weel done, Cutty-sark! '
And in an instant all was dark;

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,

When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' monie an eldritch screech and hollow.

Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,

And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark!

Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans A' plump an' strapping, in their teens ; Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies! For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies!

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Lowping and flinging on a crummock,
I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie,
There was ae winsome wench and walie,
That night enlisted in the core,
(Lang after kenn'd on Currick shore!
For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country side in fear),
Her cutty-sark, o' Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude though sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.-
Ah! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches),
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!

But here my muse her wing maun cour;
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was and strang)
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd,
And thought his very cen enrich'd:

There at them thon thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tale she had to shake
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle-
Ae spring brought aff her master bale,
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son take heed:
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear,
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME,

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT.

INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art, And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye: May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, The bitter little that of life remains :

It is a well known fact, that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any far. ther than the middle of the next running stream.-It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back.

So long, sweet Poet of the year,

FOR THE AUTHOR'S FATHER.

O YE whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains,

The tender father and the gen'rous friend.

The pitying heart that felt for human woe; The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride;

The friend of man, to vice alone a foe; "For ev'n his failings leaned to virtue's side.".

FOR R. A. Esq.

KNOW thou, O stranger to the fame Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name. (For none that knew him need be told) A warmer heart death ne'er made cold.

FOR G. H. Esq.

Whom canting wretches blam'd:

But with such as he, where'er he be,

May I be saved or dd!

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

ELDER.

HIRE Souter John in death does sleep;

To hell, if he's gane thither,

Satan, gie him thy gear to keep,

He'll haud it weel thegither.

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, Let him draw near; And owre this grassy heap sing dool, And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,

• Goldsmith.

Till some ev'ning sober, calm,
Dropping dews, and 'breathing balm,
While all around the woodland rings,
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings;
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,
Shed thy dying honours round,
And resign to parent earth

The loveliest form she e'er gave birth.

ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER, THE DEATH OF

JOHN M.LEOD, Esq.

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S.

SAD thy tale, thou idle page,

And rueful thy alarms:

Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella's arms.

Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew The morning rose may blow; But, cold successive noontide blasts May lay its beauties low.

Fair on Isabella's morn

The sun propitious smil'd;

But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds Succeeding hopes beguil'd.

Fate oft tears the bosom chords That nature finest strung: So Isabella's heart was form'd, And so that heart was rung.

Dread Omnipotence, alone,

Can heal the wound he gave; Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes To scenes beyond the grave.

Virtuous blossoms there shall blow, And fear no withering blast; There Isabella's spotless worth Shall happy be at last.

Dry-withering, waste my foaming streams,
And drink my crystal tide.

The lightly-jumpin glowrin trouts,
That thro' my waters play,

If, in their random, wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
I'm scorching up so shallow,
They're left the whitening stanes amang,
In gasping death to wallow.

Last day I grat, wi' spite and teen,
As poet B- — came by,
That, to a bard I should be seen,
Wi' half my channel dry:
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,

Even as I was he shor'd me:
But had I in my glory been,

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me.

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,
In twisting strength I rin;
There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild-roaring o'er a linn:
Enjoying large each spring and well
As nature gave them me,

I am, although I say't mysel,
Worth gaun a mile to see.

Would then my noble master please
To grant my highest wishes,
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees,
And bonnie spreading bushes;
Delighted doubly then, my Lord,
You'll wander on my banks,
And listen mony a grateful bird
Return you tuneful thanks.

The sober laverock, warbling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire;

The gowdspink, music's gayest child,
Shall sweetly join the choir:

The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,
The mavis wild and mellow;
The robin pensive autumn cheer,

In all her locks of yellow.

This too, a covert shall ensure,

To shield them from the storm;

BRUAR-WATER.*

TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.

MY LORD, I Know your noble ear

Woe ne'er assails in vain ; Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear Your humble slave complain, How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, In flaming summer-pride,

• Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; but their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs.

Low in her grassy form.

Here shall the shepherd make his seat,
To weave his crown of flowers;
Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat,
From prone descending showers.

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, Shall meet the loving pair, Despising worlds with all their wealth As empty idle care :

The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms
The hour of heav'n to grace,

And birks extend their fragrant arms
To screen the dear embrace.