tune—“shawn-boy,” or “over the water to charlie.”
ye sons of old killie, assembled by willie,
to follow the noble vocation;
your thrifty old mother has scarce such another
to sit in that honoured station.
i've little to say, but only to pray,
as praying's the ton of your fashion;
a prayer from thee muse you well may excuse
'tis seldom her favourite passion.
ye powers who preside o'er the wind, and the tide,
who marked each element's border;
who formed this frame with beneficent aim,
whose sovereign statute is order:—
within this dear mansion, may wayward contention
or withered envy ne'er enter;
may secrecy round be the mystical bound,
and brotherly love be the centre!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns tam samsons elegy tam samson's elegy
an honest man's the noblest work of god—pope.
when this worthy old sportman went out, last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in ossian's phrase, “the last of his fields,” and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. on this hint the authorposed his elegy and epitaph.—r.b., 1787.
has auld kilmarnock seen the deil?
or great mackinlay thrawn his heel?
or robertson again grown weel,
to preach an' read?
“na' waur than a'!” cries ilka chiel,
“tam samson's dead!”
kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane,
an' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane,
an' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean,
in mourning weed;
to death she's dearly pay'd the kane—
tam samson's dead!
the brethren, o' the mystic level
may hing their head in woefu' bevel,
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;
when to the loughs the curlers flock,
wi' gleesome speed,
wha will they station at the cock?
tam samson's dead!
when winter muffles up his cloak,
he was the king o' a' the core,
to guard, or draw, or wick a bore,
or up the rink like jehu roar,
in time o' need;
but now he lags on death's hog-score—
tam samson's dead!
now safe the stately sawmont sail,
and trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail,
and eels, weel-ken'd for souple tail,
and geds for greed,
since, dark in death's fish-creel, we wail
tam samson's dead!
rejoice, ye birring paitricks a';
ye cootie muircocks, crousely craw;
ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw
withouten dread;
your mortal fae is now awa;
tam samson's dead!
that woefu' morn be ever mourn'd,
saw him in shooting graith adorn'd,
while pointers round impatient burn'd,
frae couples free'd;
but och! he gaed and ne'er return'd!
tam samson's dead!
in vain auld age his body batters,
in vain the gout his ancles fetters,
in vain the burns cam down like waters,
an acre braid!
now ev'ry auld wife, greetin, clatters
“tam samson's dead!”
owre mony a weary hag he limpit,
an' aye the tither shot he thumpit,
till coward death behind him jumpit,
wi' deadly feid;
now he proclaims wi' tout o' trumpet,
“tam samson's dead!”
when at his heart he felt the dagger,
he reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger,
but yet he drew the mortal trigger,
wi' weel-aimed heed;
“lord, five!” he cry'd, an' owre did stagger—
tam samson's dead!
ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither;
ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father;
yon auld gray stane, amang the heather,
marks out his head;
whare burns has wrote, in rhyming blether,
“tam samson's dead!”
there, low he lies, in lasting rest;
perhaps upon his mould'ring breast
some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest
to hatch an' 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 an' lead,
till echo answer frae her cave,
“tam samson's dead!”
heav'n rest his saul whare'er he be!
is th' wish o' mony mae than me:
he had twa fauts, or maybe three,
yet what remead?
ae social, honest man want we:
tam samson's dead!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns the epitaph the epitaph
tam samson's weel-worn clay here lies
ye canting zealots, spare him!
if honest worth in heaven rise,
ye'll mend or ye win near him.
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns per contra per contra
go, fame, an' canter like a filly
thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' killie;
tell ev'ry social honest billie
to cease his grievin';
for, yet unskaithed by death's gleg gullie.
tam samson's leevin'!
Poems and Songs of Robert Burns epistle to major logan epistle to major logan
hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' willie!
tho' fortune's road be rough an' hilly
to every fiddling, rhyming billie,
we never heed,
but take it like the unback'd filly,
proud o' her speed.
when, idly goavin', whiles we saunter,
yirr! fancy barks, awa we canter,
up hill, down brae, till some mischanter,
some black bog-hole,
arrests us; then the scathe an' banter
we're forced to thole.
hale be your heart! hale be your fiddle!
lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
to cheer you through the weary widdle
o' this wild warl'.
until you on a crummock driddle,
a grey hair'd carl.
e wealth,e poortith, late or soon,
heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune,
and screw your temper-pins aboon
a fifth or mair
the melancholious, lacroon
o' cankrie care.
may still your life from day to day,
nae “lente largo” in the play,
but “allegretto forte” gay,
harmonious flow,
a sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey—
encore! bravo!
a blessing on the cheery gang
wha dearly like a jig or sang,
an' never think o' right an' wrang
by square an' rule,
but, as the clegs o' feeling stang,
are wise or fool.
my hand-waled curse keep hard in chase
the harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,
wha count on poortith as disgrace;
their tuneless hearts,
may fireside discords jar a base
to a' their parts.
bute, your hand, my careless brither,
i' th' ither warl', if there's anither,
an' that there is, i've little swither
about the matter;
we, cheek for chow, shall jog thegither,
i'se ne'er bid better.
we've faults and failings—granted clearly,
we're frail backsliding mortals merely,
eve's bonie squad, priests wyte them sheerly
for our grand fa';
but still, but still, i like them dearly—
god bless them a'!
ochone for poor castalian drinkers,
when they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers!
the witching, curs'd, delicious blinkers
hae put me hyte,
and gart me weet my waukrife winkers,
wi' girnin'spite.
by by yon moon!—and that's high swearin—
an' every star within my hearin!
an' by her een wha was a dear ane!
i'll ne'er forget;
i hope to gie the jads a clearin
in fair play yet.
my loss i mourn, but not repent it;
i'll seek my pursie whare i tint it;
ance to the indies i were wonted,
some cantraip hour
by some sweet elf i'll yet be dinted;