Her cutty fark, o' Paisley harn,
That while a laffie fhe had worn,
In longitude tho' forely fcanty,
It was her beft, and fhe was vauntie.-
Ah! little kend thy reverend grannie,
That fark fhe coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches),
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!

But here my Mufe her wing maun cour;
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r;
To fing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A fouple jade fhe was and ftrang),
And how Tam ftood, 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 firft ae caper, fyne anither,

Tam tint his reafon a' thegither,

And

And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-fark!"
And in an inftant all was dark:

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion fallied.

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds affail their byke;
As open puffie's mortal foes,

When, pop! fhe ftarts before their nofe;
As eager runs the market-crowd,

When "Catch the thief!" refounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,

Wi' mony an eldritch fkreech 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 foon will be a woefu' woman!

Now,

Now, do thy fpeedy utmoft, Meg,
And win the key-ftane* of the brig;
There at them thou thy tail may tofs,
A running ftream they dare na crofs.
But ere the key-ftane fhe 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 fpring brought off her mafter hale,
But left behind her ain gray tail :
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now,

*It is a well known fact that witches, or any evil fpirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any farther than the middle of the next running ftream.—It may be proper likewife to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back.

Now, wha this tale o' truth fhall read,
Ilk man and mother's fon, take heed:
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,

Or cutty-farks run in your mind,
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear,
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

ΟΝ

ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT.

INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art, And blafted be thy murder-aiming eye; May never pity foothe thee with a figh, Nor never pleasure glad thy cruel heart!

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, The bitter little that of life remains :

No more the thickening brakes and ver

dant plains

To thee shall home, or food, or paftime yield.