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Sent to Sir JOHN WHITE FORD, of WHITEFORD,

BArt. with the foregoing Poem.

ΤΗ

HOL, who thy honour as thy God rever'it, Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'it, To thee this votive off ring I impart, The tearful tribute of a broken heart. 'The Friend thou valued it, I, the Patron, lor'd; His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. Well mourn till we too go as he has gone, And tread the dreary path to that dark world un

known.

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TAM O'SHANTER,

A T A L E.

Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this Buke.

GAWIN DOUGLAS

WHEN chapmen billies leave the freet,

And drouthy neebors ncebors meet,
As market-day are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate;
While we fit boufing at the nappy,
And getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The moffes, waters, flaps, and ftyles,
That lie between us and oor hame,
Whare fits our fulky sullen dame.
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Narfing her wrath to keep it warm.

1

This truth fand honest Tam o Shanter,
As he frac Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest mea and bonny lasses.)

O Tam! hadst thou but been fae 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 O&tober, Ae market-day thou, was nae sober ; That ilka melder, wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had filler ; That every naig was cad a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; That at the L-d's house, even on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesied 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 greeting
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd fage advices,
The husband fraė 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 and clatter;
And

ay the ale was growing better :
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favours, secret, fweet, and precious :
The Souter tauld his queerest stories ;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The form without might rair and ruftle,
Tam did na mind the form a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man fae happy,
E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy ;
As bees flee hame wi’ lades o' treasure,
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure ;
Kings may be bleft, but Taṁ was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious !

But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, 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 fit 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 I'am maun ride ; That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in
And fic a night he taks the road in ;
As ne'er poor finner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 't wad blawn its lait;
The rattling showers rose on the blait ;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd :
That night, a child might understand,
The Deil had bafiness 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 gude blue bonnet; Whiles crooning o'er fome auld Scots fonnet Whiles glowring round wi' prudent cares, Left bogles catch him unawares : Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Where ghaifts and houlets nightly cry.

By this time he was crofs the ford, W hare, in the fnaw, the chapman fmoor’d; And past the birks and meikle - stane, Wbare 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 hang'd hersel, Before him Doon pours all bis floods; The doubling storm roars thro' the woods,

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