Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 77

But to our tale: Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right, Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi reaming saats, that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, His ancient, trusty, drougthy crony: Tam lo'ed him like a very brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither.

The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter; And aye the ale was growing better: The Landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious: The Souter tauld his queerest stories; The Landlord's laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy.

As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!

But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white--then melts for ever; Or like the Borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the Rainbow's lovely form Evanis.h.i.+ng amid the storm.-- Nae man can tether Time nor Tide, The hour approaches Tam maun ride; That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; And sic a night he taks the road in, As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattling showers rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd: That night, a child might understand, The deil had business on his hand.

Weel-mounted on his grey mare, Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire; Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet, Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, Whiles glow'rin round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares; Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

By this time he was cross the ford, Where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; And past the birks and meikle stane, Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'.

Before him Doon pours all his floods, The doubling storm roars thro' the woods, The lightnings flash from pole to pole, Near and more near the thunders roll, When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze, Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!

What dangers thou canst make us scorn!

Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!

The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle, But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventur'd forward on the light; And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!

Warlocks and witches in a dance: Nae cotillon, brent new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels.

A winnock-bunker in the east, There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge: He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.-- Coffins stood round, like open presses, That shaw'd the Dead in their last dresses; And (by some devilish cantraip sleight) Each in its cauld hand held a light.

By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns; A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gabudid gape; Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted: Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter which a babe had strangled: A knife, a father's throat had mangled.

Whom his ain son of life bereft, The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft; Wi' mair of horrible and awfu', Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious; The Piper loud and louder blew, The dancers quick and quicker flew, The reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linkit at it in her sark!

Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans, A' plump and strapping in their teens!

Their sarks, instead o' crees.h.i.+e flainen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!-- Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gien them off my hurdies, For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Louping an' flinging on a crummock.

I wonder did na turn thy stomach.

But Tam kent what was what fu' brawlie: There was ae winsome wench and waulie That night enlisted in the core, Lang after ken'd on Carrick sh.o.r.e; (For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd mony a bonie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear); Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, That while a la.s.sie she had worn, In longitude tho' sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie.

Ah! little ken'd thy 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 power; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade she was and strang), And how Tam stood, like ane bewithc'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 h.e.l.lish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds a.s.sail their byke; As open p.u.s.s.ie'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 skreich and hollow.

Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin!

In h.e.l.l, 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-stone o' the brig;^1 There, at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross.

But ere the keystane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake!

For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon n.o.ble 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 grey 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 rin in your mind, Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear; Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

On The Birth Of A Posthumous Child

Born in peculiar circ.u.mstances of family distress.

Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, And ward o' mony a prayer, What heart o' stane wad thou na move, Sae helpless, sweet, and fair?

November hirples o'er the lea, Chil, on thy lovely form: And gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree, Should s.h.i.+eld thee frae the storm.

[Footnote 1: It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any further than the middle of the next running stream. It may be proper likewise 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.--R.B.]

May He who gives the rain to pour, And wings the blast to blaw, Protect thee frae the driving show'r, The bitter frost and snaw.

May He, the friend o' Woe and Want, Who heals life's various stounds, Protect and guard the mother plant, And heal her cruel wounds.

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, Fair in the summer morn, Now feebly bends she in the blast, Unshelter'd and forlorn.

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, Unscath'd by ruffian hand!

And from thee many a parent stem Arise to deck our land!

Elegy On The Late Miss Burnet Of Monboddo

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize, As Burnet, lovely from her native skies; Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow, As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low.

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget?

In richest ore the brightest jewel set!

In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, As by His n.o.blest work the G.o.dhead best is known.

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves; Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery sh.o.r.e, Ye woodland choir that chaunt your idle loves, Ye cease to charm; Eliza is no more.

Ye healthy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens; Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd: Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens, To you I fly--ye with my soul accord.

Princes, whose c.u.mb'rous pride was all their worth, Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail, And thou, sweet Excellence! forsake our earth, And not a Muse with honest grief bewail?

We saw thee s.h.i.+ne in youth and beauty's pride, And Virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres; But, like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, Thou left us darkling in a world of tears.

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care; So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree; So, from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare.