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TAM O'SHANTER.

A TALE.

Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this buke.

GAWIN DOUGLAS.

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 fit boufing at the nappy,

An' getting fou and unco happy,

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We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The moffes, waters, flaps, and styles,

That lie between us and our hame,

Whare fits our fulky fullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nurfing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honeft Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr wham ne'er a town furpaffes,
For honeft men and bonny laffes.)

O Tam! hadft thou but been fae wife,
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld theé weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, bluftering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,

Ae market-day thou was nae fober;
That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou fat as lang as thou had filler;

That

That ev'ry naig was ca'd a fhoe 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 prophefy'd that late or foon,

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 counfels fweet, How mony lengthen'd fage advices, The husband frae the wife defpifes!

But to our tale: Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right; Faft by an ingle, bleezing finely,

Wi' reaming fwats, that drank divinely;

And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,

His ancient, trufty, drouthy crony ;

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Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' fangs an clatter;
And ay the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favours, fecret, fweet, and precious :
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The ftorm without might rair and ruftle,
Tam did na mind the ftorm a whistle.

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

But pleasures are like poppies fpread, You feize the flow'r, its bloom is fhed;

Or

Or like the fnow 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-ftane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And fic a night he tacks the road in,

As ne'er poor finner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its laft; The rattling fhow'rs rofe on the blast ;

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The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:
That night, a child might understand,
The Deil had bufinefs on his hand.

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