FOOTNOTES:

Lo, from the shades of Death’s deep night,Departed Whigs enjoy the fight,And think on former daring:The muffled murtherer[101]of CharlesThe Magna Charter flag unfurls,All deadly gules it’s bearing.Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame.Bold Scrimgeour[102]follows gallant Graham,[103]Auld Covenanters shiver.(Forgive, forgive, much-wrong’d Montrose!Now death and hell engulph thy foes,Thou liv’st on high for ever!)Still o’er the field the combat burns,The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns;But fate the word has spoken:For woman’s wit and strength o’ man,Alas! can do but what they can!The Tory ranks are broken.O that my een were flowing burns,My voice a lioness that mournsHer darling cubs’ undoing!That I might greet, that I might cry,While Tories fall, while Tories fly,And furious Whigs pursuing!What Whig but melts for good Sir James!Dear to his country by the namesFriend, patron, benefactor!Not Pulteney’s wealth can Pulteney save!And Hopeton falls, the generous brave!And Stewart,[104]bold as Hector.Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow;And Thurlow growl a curse of woe;And Melville melt in wailing!How Fox and Sheridan rejoice!And Burke shall sing, O Prince, arise,Thy power is all prevailing!For your poor friend, the Bard, afarHe only hears and sees the war,A cool spectator purely;So, when the storm the forests rends,The robin in the hedge descends,And sober chirps securely.

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame.Bold Scrimgeour[102]follows gallant Graham,[103]Auld Covenanters shiver.(Forgive, forgive, much-wrong’d Montrose!Now death and hell engulph thy foes,Thou liv’st on high for ever!)

Still o’er the field the combat burns,The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns;But fate the word has spoken:For woman’s wit and strength o’ man,Alas! can do but what they can!The Tory ranks are broken.

O that my een were flowing burns,My voice a lioness that mournsHer darling cubs’ undoing!That I might greet, that I might cry,While Tories fall, while Tories fly,And furious Whigs pursuing!

What Whig but melts for good Sir James!Dear to his country by the namesFriend, patron, benefactor!Not Pulteney’s wealth can Pulteney save!And Hopeton falls, the generous brave!And Stewart,[104]bold as Hector.

Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow;And Thurlow growl a curse of woe;And Melville melt in wailing!How Fox and Sheridan rejoice!And Burke shall sing, O Prince, arise,Thy power is all prevailing!

For your poor friend, the Bard, afarHe only hears and sees the war,A cool spectator purely;So, when the storm the forests rends,The robin in the hedge descends,And sober chirps securely.

FOOTNOTES:[95]John M’Murdo, Esq., of Drumlanrig.[96]Fergusson of Craigdarroch.[97]Riddel of Friars-Carse.[98]Provost Staig of Dumfries.[99]Sheriff Welsh.[100]A wine merchant in Dumfries.[101]The executioner of Charles I. was masked.[102]Scrimgeour, Lord Dundee.[103]Graham, Marquis of Montrose.[104]Stewart of Hillside.

[95]John M’Murdo, Esq., of Drumlanrig.

[96]Fergusson of Craigdarroch.

[97]Riddel of Friars-Carse.

[98]Provost Staig of Dumfries.

[99]Sheriff Welsh.

[100]A wine merchant in Dumfries.

[101]The executioner of Charles I. was masked.

[102]Scrimgeour, Lord Dundee.

[103]Graham, Marquis of Montrose.

[104]Stewart of Hillside.

[This “fine, fat, fodgel wight” was a clever man, a skilful antiquary, and fond of wit and wine. He was well acquainted with heraldry, and was conversant with the weapons and the armor of his own and other countries. He found his way to Friars-Carse, in the Vale of Nith, and there, at the social “board of Glenriddel,” for the first time saw Burns. The Englishman heard, it is said, with wonder, the sarcastic sallies and eloquent bursts of the inspired Scot, who, in his turn, surveyed with wonder the remarkable corpulence, and listened with pleasure to the independent sentiments and humourous turns of conversation in the joyous Englishman. This Poem was the fruit of the interview, and it is said that Grose regarded some passages as rather personal.]

Hear, Land o’ Cakes and brither Scots,Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat’s;If there’s a hole in a’ your coats,I rede you tent it:A chiel’s amang you taking notes,And, faith, he’ll prent it!If in your bounds ye chance to lightUpon a fine, fat, fodgel wight,O’ stature short, but genius bright,That’s he, mark weel—And wow! he has an unco slightO’ cauk and keel.By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,Or kirk deserted by its riggin,It’s ten to one ye’ll find him snug inSome eldritch part,Wi’ deils, they say, L—d save’s! colleaguin’At some black art.Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha’ or chaumer,Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamour,And you deep read in hell’s black grammar,Warlocks and witches;Ye’ll quake at his conjuring hammer,Ye midnight b——s!It’s tauld he was a sodger bred,And ane wad rather fa’n than fled;But now he’s quat the spurtle-blade,And dog-skin wallet,And ta’en the—Antiquarian trade,I think they call it.He has a fouth o’ auld nick-nackets:Rusty airn caps and jinglin’ jackets,Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,A towmont guid;And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets,Afore the flood.Of Eve’s first fire he has a cinder;Auld Tubal-Cain’s fire-shool and fender;That which distinguished the genderO’ Balaam’s ass;A broom-stick o’ the witch o’ Endor,Weel shod wi’ brass.Forbye, he’ll shape you aff, fu’ gleg,The cut of Adam’s philibeg:The knife that nicket Abel’s craigHe’ll prove you fully,It was a faulding jocteleg,Or lang-kail gully.—But wad ye see him in his glee,For meikle glee and fun has he,Then set him down, and twa or threeGuid fellows wi’ him;And port, O port! shine thou a wee,And then ye’ll see him!Now, by the pow’rs o’ verse and prose!Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose!—Whae’er o’ thee shall ill suppose,They sair misca’ thee;I’d take the rascal by the nose,Wad say, Shame fa’ thee!

Hear, Land o’ Cakes and brither Scots,Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat’s;If there’s a hole in a’ your coats,I rede you tent it:A chiel’s amang you taking notes,And, faith, he’ll prent it!

If in your bounds ye chance to lightUpon a fine, fat, fodgel wight,O’ stature short, but genius bright,That’s he, mark weel—And wow! he has an unco slightO’ cauk and keel.

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,Or kirk deserted by its riggin,It’s ten to one ye’ll find him snug inSome eldritch part,Wi’ deils, they say, L—d save’s! colleaguin’At some black art.

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha’ or chaumer,Ye gipsey-gang that deal in glamour,And you deep read in hell’s black grammar,Warlocks and witches;Ye’ll quake at his conjuring hammer,Ye midnight b——s!

It’s tauld he was a sodger bred,And ane wad rather fa’n than fled;But now he’s quat the spurtle-blade,And dog-skin wallet,And ta’en the—Antiquarian trade,I think they call it.

He has a fouth o’ auld nick-nackets:Rusty airn caps and jinglin’ jackets,Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,A towmont guid;And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets,Afore the flood.

Of Eve’s first fire he has a cinder;Auld Tubal-Cain’s fire-shool and fender;That which distinguished the genderO’ Balaam’s ass;A broom-stick o’ the witch o’ Endor,Weel shod wi’ brass.

Forbye, he’ll shape you aff, fu’ gleg,The cut of Adam’s philibeg:The knife that nicket Abel’s craigHe’ll prove you fully,It was a faulding jocteleg,Or lang-kail gully.—

But wad ye see him in his glee,For meikle glee and fun has he,Then set him down, and twa or threeGuid fellows wi’ him;And port, O port! shine thou a wee,And then ye’ll see him!

Now, by the pow’rs o’ verse and prose!Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose!—Whae’er o’ thee shall ill suppose,They sair misca’ thee;I’d take the rascal by the nose,Wad say, Shame fa’ thee!

[Burns wrote out some antiquarian and legendary memoranda, respecting certain ruins in Kyle, and enclosed them in a sheet of a paper to Cardonnel, a northern antiquary. As his mind teemed with poetry he could not, as he afterwards said, let the opportunity, pass of sending a rhyming inquiry after his fat friend, and Cardonnel spread the condoling inquiry over the North—

“Is he slain by Highlan’ bodies?And eaten like a wether-haggis?”]

Ken ye ought o’ Captain Grose?Igo and ago,If he’s amang his friends or foes?Iram, coram, dago.Is he south or is he north?Igo and ago,Or drowned in the river Forth?Iram, coram, dago.Is he slain by Highlan’ bodies?Igo and ago,And eaten like a wether-haggis?Iram, coram, dago.Is he to Abram’s bosom gane?Igo and ago,Or haudin’ Sarah by the wame?Iram, coram, dago.Where’er he be, the L—d be near him!Igo and ago,As for the deil, he daur na steer him!Iram, coram, dago.But please transmit the enclosed letter,Igo and ago,Which will oblige your humble debtor,Iram, coram, dago.So may he hae auld stanes in store,Igo and ago,The very stanes that Adam bore,Iram, coram, dago.So may ye get in glad possession,Igo and ago,The coins o’ Satan’s coronation!Iram, coram, dago.

Ken ye ought o’ Captain Grose?Igo and ago,If he’s amang his friends or foes?Iram, coram, dago.

Is he south or is he north?Igo and ago,Or drowned in the river Forth?Iram, coram, dago.

Is he slain by Highlan’ bodies?Igo and ago,And eaten like a wether-haggis?Iram, coram, dago.

Is he to Abram’s bosom gane?Igo and ago,Or haudin’ Sarah by the wame?Iram, coram, dago.

Where’er he be, the L—d be near him!Igo and ago,As for the deil, he daur na steer him!Iram, coram, dago.

But please transmit the enclosed letter,Igo and ago,Which will oblige your humble debtor,Iram, coram, dago.

So may he hae auld stanes in store,Igo and ago,The very stanes that Adam bore,Iram, coram, dago.

So may ye get in glad possession,Igo and ago,The coins o’ Satan’s coronation!Iram, coram, dago.

“Of brownys and of bogilis full is this buke.”

Gawin Douglas

[This is a West-country legend, embellished by genius. No other Poem in our language displays such variety of power, in the same number of lines. It waswritten as an inducement to Grose to admit Alloway-Kirk into his work on the Antiquities of Scotland; and written with such ecstasy, that the poet shed tears in the moments of composition. The walk in which it was conceived, on the braes of Ellisland, is held in remembrance in the vale, and pointed out to poetic inquirers: while the scene where the poem is laid—the crumbling ruins—the place where the chapman perished in the snow—the tree on which the poor mother of Mungo ended her sorrows—the cairn where the murdered child was found by the hunters—and the old bridge over which Maggie bore her astonished master when all hell was in pursuit, are first-rate objects of inspection and inquiry in the “Land of Burns.” “In the inimitable tale of Tam o’ Shanter,” says Scott “Burns has left us sufficient evidence of his ability to combine the ludicrous with the awful, and even the horrible. No poet, with the exception of Shakspeare, ever possessed the power of exciting the most varied and discordant emotions with such rapid transitions.”]

When chapman billies leave the street,And drouthy neebors neebors meet,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,Where 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! hadst 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 wasna 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 Lord’s house, ev’n on Sunday,Thou drank wi’ Kirton 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 mony 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 crony;Tam lo’ed him like a vera brither;They had been fou’ for weeks thegither!The night drave on wi’ sangs an’ clatter;And ay the ale was growing better:The landlady and Tam grew gracious;Wi’ favors secret, sweet, and precious;The Souter tauld his queerest stories;The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus:[105]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 formEvanishing 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 inAs ne’er poor sinner was abroad in.The wind blew as ’twad blawn its last;The rattling show’rs 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 de’il had business on his hand.Weel mounted on his gray 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.—

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! hadst 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 wasna 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 Lord’s house, ev’n on Sunday,Thou drank wi’ Kirton 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 mony 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 crony;Tam lo’ed him like a vera brither;They had been fou’ for weeks thegither!The night drave on wi’ sangs an’ clatter;And ay the ale was growing better:The landlady and Tam grew gracious;Wi’ favors secret, sweet, and precious;The Souter tauld his queerest stories;The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus:[105]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 formEvanishing 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 inAs ne’er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as ’twad blawn its last;The rattling show’rs 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 de’il had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his gray 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 foord,Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor’d;And past the birks and meikle stane,Where drunken Charlie brak’s neck-bane;And thro’ the whins, and by the cairn,Where hunters fand the murder’d bairn;And near the thorn, aboon the well,Where Mungo’s mither hang’d hersel’.Before him Doon pours all his floods;The doubling storm roars thro’ the woods;The lightnings flash from pole to pole;Near and more 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’ usquabae we’ll face the devil!The swats sae ream’d in Tammie’s noddle,Fair play, he car’d nae deils a boddle.But Maggie stood right sair astonish’d,’Till, by the heel and hand admonish’d,She ventur’d forward on the light;And wow! Tam 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 east,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 the 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 slightEach in its cauld hand held a light—By which heroic Tam was ableTo 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’ bluid red-rusted;Five scimitars, 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 gray hairs yet stack to the heft:[106]Wi’ mair o’ horrible and awfu’,Which ev’n to name would 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;They reel’d, they set, they cross’d, they cleekit,’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 thae been queansA’ plump and 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 off my hurdies,For ae blink o’ the bonnie burdies!But wither’d beldams, auld and droll,Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal,Lowping an’ flinging on a cummock,I wonder didna turn thy stomach.But Tam kenn’d what was what fu’ brawlie,There was a winsome wench and walie,That night enlisted in the core,(Lang after kenn’d on Carrick 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 tho’ sorely scanty,It was her best, and she was vauntie—

Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn!What dangers thou canst make us scorn!Wi’ tippenny, we fear nae evil;Wi’ usquabae we’ll face the devil!The swats sae ream’d in Tammie’s noddle,Fair play, he car’d nae deils a boddle.But Maggie stood right sair astonish’d,’Till, by the heel and hand admonish’d,She ventur’d forward on the light;And wow! Tam 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 east,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 the 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 slightEach in its cauld hand held a light—By which heroic Tam was ableTo 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’ bluid red-rusted;Five scimitars, 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 gray hairs yet stack to the heft:[106]Wi’ mair o’ horrible and awfu’,Which ev’n to name would 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;They reel’d, they set, they cross’d, they cleekit,’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 thae been queansA’ plump and 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 off my hurdies,For ae blink o’ the bonnie burdies!

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

But Tam kenn’d what was what fu’ brawlie,There was a winsome wench and walie,That night enlisted in the core,(Lang after kenn’d on Carrick 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 tho’ sorely scanty,It was her best, and she was vauntie—

Ah! little kenn’d the 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 strung,)And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch’d;And thought his very een enrich’d;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’ mony an eldritch screech and hollow.Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou’ll get thy fairin’!In hell they’ll roast thee like a herrin’!In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin’!Kate soon will be a woefu’ woman!Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg,And win the key-stane[107]of the brig;There at them thou thy tail may toss,A running stream they darena cross!But ere the key-stane she could make,The fient a tail 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 off her master hale,But left behind her ain gray 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.

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’ mony an eldritch screech and hollow.

Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou’ll get thy fairin’!In hell they’ll roast thee like a herrin’!In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin’!Kate soon will be a woefu’ woman!Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg,And win the key-stane[107]of the brig;There at them thou thy tail may toss,A running stream they darena cross!But ere the key-stane she could make,The fient a tail 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 off her master hale,But left behind her ain gray 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.

FOOTNOTES:[105]VARIATION.The cricket raised its cheering cry,The kitten chas’d its tail in joy.[106]VARIATION.Three lawyers’ tongues turn’d inside out,Wi’ lies seem’d like a beggar’s clout;And priests’ hearts rotten black as muck,Lay stinking vile, in every neuk.[107]It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any further than the middle of the next running stream. It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in withbogles, whatever danger there may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back.

[105]VARIATION.The cricket raised its cheering cry,The kitten chas’d its tail in joy.

[105]VARIATION.

The cricket raised its cheering cry,The kitten chas’d its tail in joy.

[106]VARIATION.Three lawyers’ tongues turn’d inside out,Wi’ lies seem’d like a beggar’s clout;And priests’ hearts rotten black as muck,Lay stinking vile, in every neuk.

[106]VARIATION.

Three lawyers’ tongues turn’d inside out,Wi’ lies seem’d like a beggar’s clout;And priests’ hearts rotten black as muck,Lay stinking vile, in every neuk.

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

[This Poem made its first appearance, as I was assured by my friend the late Thomas Pringle, in the Scots Magazine, for February, 1818, and was printed from the original in the handwriting of Burns. It was headed thus, “To the Right honorable the Earl of Brendalbyne, President of the Right Honourable and Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23d of May last, at the Shakspeare, Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of four hundred Highlanders, who, as the Society were informed by Mr. M. ——, of A——s, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lairds and masters, whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdonald, of Glengarry, to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing—Liberty.” The Poem was communicated by Burns to his friend Rankine of Adam Hill, in Ayrshire.]

Long life, my Lord, an’ health be yours,Unskaith’d by hunger’d Highland boors;Lord grant mae duddie desperate beggar,Wi’ dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger,May twin auld Scotland o’ a lifeShe likes—as lambkins like a knife.Faith, you and A——s were rightTo keep the Highland hounds in sight;I doubt na! they wad bid nae betterThan let them ance out owre the water;Then up among the lakes and seasThey’ll mak’ what rules and laws they please;Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin’;May set their Highland bluid a ranklin’;Some Washington again may head them,Or some Montgomery fearless lead them,Till God knows what may be effectedWhen by such heads and hearts directed—Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mireMay to Patrician rights aspire!Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville,To watch and premier o’er the pack vile,An’ whare will ye get Howes and ClintonsTo bring them to a right repentance,To cowe the rebel generation,An’ save the honour o’ the nation?They an’ be d——d! what right hae theyTo meat or sleep, or light o’ day?Far less to riches, pow’r, or freedom,But what your lordship likes to gie them?But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!Your hand’s owre light on them, I fear;Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,I canna’ say but they do gaylies;They lay aside a’ tender mercies,An’ tirl the hallions to the birses;Yet while they’re only poind’t and herriet,They’ll keep their stubborn Highland spirit;But smash them! crash them a’ to spails!An’ rot the dyvors i’ the jails!The young dogs, swinge them to the labour;Let wark an’ hunger mak’ them sober!The hizzies, if they’re aughtlins fawsont,Let them in Drury-lane be lesson’d!An’ if the wives an’ dirty bratsE’en thigger at your doors an’ yetts,Flaffan wi’ duds an’ grey wi’ beas’,Frightin’ awa your deuks an’ geese,Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,The langest thong, the fiercest growler,An’ gar the tattered gypsies packWi’ a’ their bastards on their back!Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,An’ in my house at hame to greet you;Wi’ common lords ye shanna mingle,The benmost neuk beside the ingle,At my right han’ assigned your seat’Tween Herod’s hip an Polycrate,—Or if you on your station tarrow,Between Almagro and Pizarro,A seat I’m sure ye’re weel deservin’t;An’ till ye come—Your humble rervant,

But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!Your hand’s owre light on them, I fear;Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,I canna’ say but they do gaylies;They lay aside a’ tender mercies,An’ tirl the hallions to the birses;Yet while they’re only poind’t and herriet,They’ll keep their stubborn Highland spirit;But smash them! crash them a’ to spails!An’ rot the dyvors i’ the jails!The young dogs, swinge them to the labour;Let wark an’ hunger mak’ them sober!The hizzies, if they’re aughtlins fawsont,Let them in Drury-lane be lesson’d!An’ if the wives an’ dirty bratsE’en thigger at your doors an’ yetts,Flaffan wi’ duds an’ grey wi’ beas’,Frightin’ awa your deuks an’ geese,Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,The langest thong, the fiercest growler,An’ gar the tattered gypsies packWi’ a’ their bastards on their back!Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,An’ in my house at hame to greet you;Wi’ common lords ye shanna mingle,The benmost neuk beside the ingle,At my right han’ assigned your seat’Tween Herod’s hip an Polycrate,—Or if you on your station tarrow,Between Almagro and Pizarro,A seat I’m sure ye’re weel deservin’t;An’ till ye come—Your humble rervant,

Beelzebub.

June 1st, Anno Mundi 5790.

[Burns, it appears, was, in one of his excursions in revenue matters, likely to be detained at Wanlockhead: the roads were slippery with ice, his mare kept her feet with difficulty, and all the blacksmiths of the village were pre-engaged. To Mr. Taylor, a person of influence in the place, the poet, in despair, addressed this little Poem, begging his interference: Taylor spoke to a smith; the smith flew to his tools, sharpened or frosted the shoes, and it is said lived for thirty years to boast that he had “never been well paid but ance, and that was by a poet, who paid him in money, paid him in drink, and paid him in verse.”]

With Pegasus upon a day,Apollo weary flying,Through frosty hills the journey lay,On foot the way was plying,Poor slip-shod giddy PegasusWas but a sorry walker;To Vulcan then Apollo goes,To get a frosty calker.Obliging Vulcan fell to work,Threw by his coat and bonnet,And did Sol’s business in a crack;Sol paid him with a sonnet.Ye Vulcan’s sons of Wanlockhead,Pity my sad disaster;My Pegasus is poorly shod—I’ll pay you like my master.

With Pegasus upon a day,Apollo weary flying,Through frosty hills the journey lay,On foot the way was plying,

Poor slip-shod giddy PegasusWas but a sorry walker;To Vulcan then Apollo goes,To get a frosty calker.

Obliging Vulcan fell to work,Threw by his coat and bonnet,And did Sol’s business in a crack;Sol paid him with a sonnet.

Ye Vulcan’s sons of Wanlockhead,Pity my sad disaster;My Pegasus is poorly shod—I’ll pay you like my master.

Robert Burns.

Ramages,3 o’clock, (no date.)

[The poet communicated this “Lament” to his friend, Dr. Moore, in February, 1791, but it was composed about the close of the preceding year, at the request of Lady Winifred Maxwell Constable, of Terreagles, the last in direct descent of the noble and ancient house of Maxwell, of Nithsdale. Burns expressed himself more than commonly pleased with this composition; nor was he unrewarded, for Lady Winifred gave him a valuable snuff-box, with the portrait of the unfortunate Mary on the lid. The bed still keeps its place in Terreagles, on which the queen slept as she was on her way to take refuge with her cruel and treacherous cousin, Elizabeth; and a letter from her no less unfortunate grandson, Charles the First, calling the Maxwells to arm in his cause, is preserved in the family archives.]

Now Nature hangs her mantle greenOn every blooming tree,And spreads her sheets o’ daisies whiteOut o’er the grassy lea:Now Phœbus cheers the crystal streams,And glads the azure skies;But nought can glad the weary wightThat fast in durance lies.

II.

Now lav’rocks wake the merry morn,Aloft on dewy wing;The merle, in his noontide bow’r,Makes woodland echoes ring;The mavis wild wi’ mony a note,Sings drowsy day to rest:In love and freedom they rejoice,Wi’ care nor thrall opprest.

III.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,The primrose down the brae;The hawthorn’s budding in the glen,And milk-white is the slae;The meanest hind in fair ScotlandMay rove their sweets amang;But I, the Queen of a’ Scotland,Maun lie in prison strang!

IV.

I was the Queen o’ bonnie France,Where happy I hae been;Fu’ lightly rase I in the morn,As blythe lay down at e’en:And I’m the sov’reign o’ Scotland,And mony a traitor there;Yet here I lie in foreign bandsAnd never-ending care.

But as for thee, thou false woman!My sister and my fae,Grim vengeance yet shall whet a swordThat thro’ thy soul shall gae!The weeping blood in woman’s breastWas never known to thee;Nor th’ balm that draps on wounds of woeFrae woman’s pitying e’e.

VI.

My son! my son! may kinder starsUpon thy fortune shine;And may those pleasures gild thy reign,That ne’er wad blink on mine!God keep thee frae thy mother’s faes,Or turn their hearts to thee:And where thou meet’st thy mother’s friendRemember him for me!

VII.

O! soon, to me, may summer sunsNae mair light up the morn!Nae mair, to me, the autumn windsWave o’er the yellow corn!And in the narrow house o’ deathLet winter round me rave;And the next flow’rs that deck the springBloom on my peaceful grave!

[“As the authentic prose history,” says Burns, “of the ‘Whistle’ is curious, I shall here give it. In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony whistle, which at the commencement of the orgies, he laid on the table, and whoever was the last able to blow it, everybody else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories, without a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany; and challenged the Scotch Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority. After man overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie, of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy baronet of that name; who, after three days and three nights’ hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table,

‘And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill.’

“Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, afterwards lost the whistle to Walter Riddel, of Glenriddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter’s.—On Friday, the 16th of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, the whistle was once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert of Maxwelton; Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the whistle, and in whose family it had continued; and Alexander Fergusson, Esq., of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir Robert; which last gentleman carried off the hard-won honours of the field.”

The jovial contest took place in the dining-room of Friars-Carse, in the presence of the Bard, who drank bottle and bottle about with them, and seemed quite disposed to take up the conqueror when the day dawned.]

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