Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 44

Then from his Lords.h.i.+p I shall learn, Henceforth to meet with unconcern One rank as weel's another; Nae honest, worthy man need care To meet with n.o.ble youthful Daer, For he but meets a brother.

Masonic Song

Tune--"Shawn-boy," or "Over the water to Charlie."

Ye sons of old Killie, a.s.sembled by Willie, To follow the n.o.ble vocation; Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another To sit in that honoured station.

I've little to say, but only to pray, As praying's the ton of your fas.h.i.+on; A prayer from thee Muse you well may excuse 'Tis seldom her favourite pa.s.sion.

Ye powers who preside o'er the wind, and the tide, Who marked each element's border; Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, Whose sovereign statute is order:-- Within this dear mansion, may wayward Contention Or withered Envy ne'er enter; May secrecy round be the mystical bound, And brotherly Love be the centre!

Tam Samson's Elegy

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

When this worthy old sportman went out, last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, "the last of his fields," and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph.--R.B., 1787.

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?

Or great Mackinlay^1 thrawn his heel?

Or Robertson^2 again grown weel, To preach an' read?

"Na' waur than a'!" cries ilka chiel, "Tam Samson's dead!"

[Footnote 1: A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide "The Ordination." stanza ii.--R. B.]

[Footnote 2: Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at that time ailing. For him see also "The Ordination,"

stanza ix.--R.B.]

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane, An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane, An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean, In mourning weed; To Death she's dearly pay'd 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 loughs the curlers flock, Wi' gleesome speed, Wha will they station at the c.o.c.k?

Tam Samson's dead!

When Winter m.u.f.fles up his cloak, 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 bedropp'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's dead!

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a'; Ye cootie muirc.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 shooting graith adorn'd, While pointers round impatient burn'd, Frae couples free'd; 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 mony a weary hag he limpit, An' aye the t.i.ther shot he thumpit, Till coward Death behind him jumpit, Wi' deadly feid; 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-aimed heed; "Lord, 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 gray 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 memory crave, O' pouther an' lead, Till Echo answer frae her cave, "Tam Samson's dead!"

Heav'n rest his saul whare'er he be!

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

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

The 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;^3 Tell ev'ry social honest billie To cease his grievin'; For, yet unskaithed by Death's gleg gullie.

Tam Samson's leevin'!

Epistle To Major Logan

Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie!

Tho' fortune's road be rough an' hilly To every fiddling, rhyming billie, We never heed, But take it like the unback'd filly, Proud o' her speed.

[Footnote 3: Kilmarnock.--R. B.]

When, idly goavin', whiles we saunter, Yirr! fancy barks, awa we canter, Up hill, down brae, till some mischanter, Some black bog-hole, Arrests us; then the scathe an' banter We're forced to thole.

Hale be your heart! hale be your fiddle!

Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle, To cheer you through the weary widdle O' this wild warl'.

Until you on a crummock driddle, A grey hair'd carl.

Come wealth, come poort.i.th, late or soon, Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune, And screw your temper-pins aboon A fifth or mair The melancholious, lazy croon O' cankrie care.