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!
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.
Per Contra
Go, Fame, an’ canter like a filly Thro’ a’ the streets an’ neuks o’ Killie;^3 Tell ev’ry social honest billie To cease his grievin’; For, yet unskaithed by Death’s gleg gullie. Tam Samson’s leevin’!
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.
[Footnote 3: Kilmarnock.—R. B.]
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.
Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon, Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune, And screw your temper-pins aboon A fifth or mair The melancholious, lazy croon 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.
But come, 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; Then vive l’amour!
Faites mes baissemains respectueuses, To sentimental sister Susie, And honest Lucky; no to roose you, Ye may be proud, That sic a couple Fate allows ye, To grace your blood.
Nae mair at present can I measure, An’ trowth my rhymin ware’s nae treasure; But when in Ayr, some half-hour’s leisure, Be’t light, be’t dark, Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure To call at Park.
Robert Burns. Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786.
Fragment On Sensibility
Rusticity’s ungainly form May cloud the highest mind; But when the heart is nobly warm, The good excuse will find.
Propriety’s cold, cautious rules Warm fervour may o’erlook: But spare poor sensibility Th’ ungentle, harsh rebuke.
A Winter Night
Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm! How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these?—Shakespeare.
When biting Boreas, fell and dour, Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r; When Phoebus gies a short-liv’d glow’r, Far south the lift, Dim-dark’ning thro’ the flaky show’r, Or whirling drift:
Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked, While burns, wi’ snawy wreaths up-choked, Wild-eddying swirl; Or, thro’ the mining outlet bocked, Down headlong hurl:
List’ning the doors an’ winnocks rattle, I thought me on the ourie cattle, Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle O’ winter war, And thro’ the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle Beneath a scar.
Ilk happing bird,—wee, helpless thing! That, in the merry months o’ spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o’ thee? Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing, An’ close thy e’e?
Ev’n you, on murdering errands toil’d, Lone from your savage homes exil’d, The blood-stain’d roost, and sheep-cote spoil’d My heart forgets, While pityless the tempest wild Sore on you beats!
Now Phoebe in her midnight reign, Dark-muff’d, view’d the dreary plain; Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, Rose in my soul, When on my ear this plantive strain, Slow, solemn, stole:—
“Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust! And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost! Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows! Not all your rage, as now united, shows More hard unkindness unrelenting, Vengeful malice unrepenting. Than heaven-illumin’d Man on brother Man bestows!
“See stern Oppression’s iron grip, Or mad Ambition’s gory hand, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, Woe, Want, and Murder o’er a land! Ev’n in the peaceful rural vale, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, How pamper’d Luxury, Flatt’ry by her side, The parasite empoisoning her ear, With all the servile wretches in the rear, Looks o’er proud Property, extended wide; And eyes the simple, rustic hind, Whose toil upholds the glitt’ring show— A creature of another kind, Some coarser substance, unrefin’d— Plac’d for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below!
“Where, where is Love’s fond, tender throe, With lordly Honour’s lofty brow, The pow’rs you proudly own? Is there, beneath Love’s noble name, Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, To bless himself alone? Mark maiden-innocence a prey To love-pretending snares: This boasted Honour turns away, Shunning soft Pity’s rising sway, Regardless of the tears and unavailing pray’rs! Perhaps this hour, in Misery’s squalid nest, She strains your infant to her joyless breast, And with a mother’s fears shrinks at the rocking blast!
“Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create, Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, Whom friends and fortune quite disown! Ill-satisfy’d keen nature’s clamorous call, Stretch’d on his straw, he lays himself to sleep; While through the ragged roof and chinky wall, Chill, o’er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap! Think on the dungeon’s grim confine, Where Guilt and poor Misfortune pine! Guilt, erring man, relenting view, But shall thy legal rage pursue The wretch, already crushed low By cruel Fortune’s undeserved blow? Affliction’s sons are brothers in distress; A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!”
I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer Shook off the pouthery snaw, And hail’d the morning with a cheer, A cottage-rousing craw. But deep this truth impress’d my mind— Thro’ all His works abroad, The heart benevolent and kind The most resembles God.