The Complete Works. Robert Burns

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      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-cocks, crousely craw;

      Ye maukins, cock 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 tither 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 hoary 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’.

      XLI. LAMENT, OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND’S AMOUR

      “Alas! how oft does goodness wound itself!

      [The hero and heroine of this little mournful poem, were Robert Burns and Jean Armour. “This was a most melancholy affair,” says the poet in his letter to Moore, “which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given me one or two of the principal qualifications for a place among those who have lost the chart and mistaken the reckoning of rationality.” Hogg and Motherwell, with an ignorance which is easier to laugh at than account for, say this Poem was “written on the occasion of Alexander Cunningham’s darling sweetheart alighting him and marrying another:—she acted a wise part.” With what care they had read the great poet whom they jointly edited in is needless to say: and how they could read the last two lines of the third verse and commend the lady’s wisdom for slighting her lover, seems a problem which defies definition. This mistake was pointed out by a friend, and corrected in a second issue of the volume.]