The Complete Works. Robert Burns

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      I wad hae gi’en them off my hurdies,

      For ae blink o’ the bonnie burdies!

      But wither’d beldams, auld and droll,

      Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal,

      Lowping an’ flinging on a cummock,

      I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

      But Tam kenn’d what was what fu’ brawlie,

      There was a winsome wench and walie,

      That night enlisted in the core,

      (Lang after kenn’d on Carrick shore;

      For mony a beast to dead she shot,

      And perish’d mony a bonnie boat,

      And shook baith meikle corn and bear,

      And kept the country-side in fear.)

      Her cutty sark, o’ Paisley harn,

      That, while a lassie, she had worn,

      In longitude tho’ sorely scanty,

      It was her best, and she was vauntie—

      Ah! little kenn’d the reverend grannie,

      That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,

      Wi’ twa pund Scots (’twas a’ her riches),

      Wad ever grac’d a dance of witches!

      But here my muse her wing maun cour;

      Sic flights are far beyond her pow’r;

      To sing how Nannie lap and flang,

      (A souple jade she was and strung,)

      And how Tam stood, 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 first ae caper, syne anither,

      Tam tint his reason a’ thegither,

      And roars out, “Weel done, Cutty-sark!”

      And in an instant all was dark:

      And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,

      When out the hellish legion sallied.

      As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke,

      When plundering herds assail their byke;

      As open pussie’s mortal foes,

      When, pop! she starts before their nose;

      As eager runs the market-crowd,

      When “Catch the thief!” resounds aloud;

      So Maggie runs, the witches follow,

      Wi’ mony an eldritch screech 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 soon will be a woefu’ woman!

      Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg,

      And win the key-stane[107] of the brig;

      There at them thou thy tail may toss,

      A running stream they darena cross!

      But ere the key-stane she 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 spring brought off her master hale,

      But left behind her ain gray tail:

      The carlin claught her by the rump,

      And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

      Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read,

      Ilk man and mother’s son, take heed:

      Whene’er to drink you are inclin’d,

      Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,

      Think! ye may buy the joys o’er dear—

      Remember Tam O’ Shanter’s mare.

      CXIX. ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY.

      [This Poem made its first appearance, as I was assured by my friend the late Thomas Pringle, in the Scots Magazine, for February, 1818, and was printed from the original in the handwriting of Burns. It was headed thus, “To the Right honorable the Earl of Brendalbyne, President of the Right Honourable and Honourable the Highland Society, which met on the 23d of May last, at the Shakspeare, Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of four hundred Highlanders, who, as the Society were informed by Mr. M. –, of A–s, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lairds and masters, whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. Macdonald, of Glengarry, to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing—Liberty.” The Poem was communicated by Burns to his friend Rankine of Adam Hill, in Ayrshire.]