IV.

Think, when your castigated pulse Gies now and then a wallop, What ragings must his veins convulse, That still eternal gallop: Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, Right on ye scud your sea-way; But in the teeth o' baith to sail, It makes an unco lee-way.

V.

See social life and glee sit down, All joyous and unthinking, 'Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown Debauchery and drinking; O would they stay to calculate Th' eternal consequences; Or your more dreaded h.e.l.l to state, D--mnation of expenses!

VI.

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, Ty'd up in G.o.dly laces, Before ye gie poor frailty names, Suppose a change o' cases; A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, A treacherous inclination-- But, let me whisper, i' your lug, Ye're aiblins nae temptation.

VII.

Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Though they may gang a kennin' wrang, To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it: And just as lamely can ye mark, How far perhaps they rue it.

VIII.

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us, He knows each chord--its various tone, Each spring--its various bias: Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted.

XL.

TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY.[49]

"An honest man's the n.o.blest work of G.o.d."

POPE.

[Tam Samson was a west country seedsman and sportsman, who loved a good song, a social gla.s.s, and relished a shot so well that he expressed a wish to die and be buried in the moors. On this hint Burns wrote the Elegy: when Tam heard o' this he waited on the poet, caused him to recite it, and expressed displeasure at being numbered with the dead: the author, whose wit was as ready as his rhymes, added the Per Contra in a moment, much to the delight of his friend. At his death the four lines of Epitaph were cut on his gravestone. "This poem has always," says Hogg, "been a great country favourite: it abounds with happy expressions.

'In vain the burns cam' down like waters, An acre braid.'

What a picture of a flooded burn! any other poet would have given us a long description: Burns dashes it down at once in a style so graphic no one can mistake it.

'Perhaps upon his mouldering breast Some spitefu' moorfowl bigs her nest.'

Match that sentence who can."]

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?

Or great M'Kinlay[50] thrawn his heel?

Or Robinson[51] 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' sob, an' greet her lane, An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an wean, In mourning weed; To death, she's dearly paid 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 m.u.f.fles up his cloak, And binds the mire like a rock; When to the lochs the curlers flock, Wi' gleesome speed, Wha will they station at the c.o.c.k?

Tam Samson's dead!

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 be-dropp'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 dead.

Rejoice, ye birring patricks a'; Ye cootie moor-c.o.c.ks, crousely craw; Ye maukins, c.o.c.k 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 shootin' graith adorn'd, While pointers round impatient burn'd, Frae couples freed; 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 many a weary hag he limpit, An' ay the t.i.ther shot he thumpit, Till coward death behind him jumpit, Wi' deadly feide; 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-aim'd heed; "L--d, five!" he cry'd, an' owre did stagger; Tam Samson's dead!

Ilk h.o.a.ry hunter mourn'd a brither; Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father; Yon auld grey 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 mem'ry crave O' pouther an' lead, 'Till echo answer frae her cave Tam Samson's dead!

Heav'n rest his soul, whare'er he be!

Is th' wish o' mony mae than me; He had twa fauts, or may be three, Yet what remead?

Ae social, honest man want we: Tam Samson's dead!

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, Tell ev'ry social honest billie To cease his grievin', For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, Tam Samson's livin'.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 49: When this worthy old sportsman went out last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, "the last of his fields."]