Robert Burns: How To Know Him Part 42

There low he lies in lasting rest; Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast Some spitfu' muirfowl bigs her nest, [builds]

To hatch and 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, [powder]

Till Echo answer frae her cave 'Tam Samson's dead!'

'Heav'n rest his saul, where'er he be!'

Is th' wish o' mony mae than me: [more]

He had twa fauts, or maybe three, Yet what remead? [remedy]

Ae social honest man want we: [One]

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 ere ye win near him.

_Per Contra_

Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie, [nooks]

Tell ev'ry social honest billie [fellow]

To cease his grievin', For yet, unskaith'd by Death's gleg gullie, [unharmed, nimble knife]

Tam Samson's livin'!

[23] In curling, to _guard_ is to protect one stone by another in front; to _draw_ is to drive a stone into a good position by striking it with another; to _wick a bore_ is to hit a stone obliquely and send it through between two others.

[24] The line a curling stone must cross to stay in the game.

ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON,

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY G.o.d

O Death! thou tyrant fell and b.l.o.o.d.y!

The meikle devil wi' a woodie [big, gallows-rope]

Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie [Drag, smithy]

O'er hurcheon hides, [hedgehog]

And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie [anvil]

Wi' thy auld sides!

He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn, [gone]

The ae best fellow e'er was born! [one]

Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn By wood and wild, Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn, Frae man exil'd.

Ye hills, near neibors o' the starns, [stars]

That proudly c.o.c.k your cresting cairns! [mounds]

Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns, [eagles]

Where echo slumbers!

Come join, ye Nature's st.u.r.diest bairns, [children]

My wailing numbers!

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! [each, dove]

Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens! [woods]

Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens, [winding]

Wi' toddlin din, Or foaming strang wi' hasty stens [heaps]

Frae lin to lin. [fall]

Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; Ye stately foxgloves fair to see; Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, In scented bow'rs; Ye roses on your th.o.r.n.y tree, The first o' flow'rs.

At dawn when ev'ry gra.s.sy blade Droops with a diamond at his head, At ev'n when beans their fragrance shed I' th' rustling gale, Ye maukins, whiddin' thro' the glade, [hares, scudding]

Come join my wail.

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye grouse that c.r.a.p the heather bud; [crop]

Ye curlews calling thro' a clud; [cloud]

Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood-- [partridge]

He's gane for ever!

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; Ye fisher herons, watching eels; Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels Circling the lake; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, Rair for his sake. [Boom]

Mourn, clamouring craiks at close o' day, [corncrakes]

'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay; And, when ye wing your annual way Frae our cauld sh.o.r.e, Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay, [those]

Wham we deplore.

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r [owls]

In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, [haunted]

What time the moon wi' silent glow'r [stare]

Sets up her horn, Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour Till waukrife morn! [wakeful]

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains!

Oft have ye heard my canty strains; [cheerful]

But now, what else for me remains But tales of woe?

And frae my een the drapping rains [eyes]

Maun ever flow. [Must]

Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year!

Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear: [catch]

Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head, Thy gay green flow'ry tresses shear For him that's dead!

Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, In grief thy sallow mantle tear!

Thou, Winter, hurling thro' the air The roaring blast, Wide o'er the naked warld, declare The worth we've lost!

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light!

Mourn, empress of the silent night!

And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, [starlets]

My Matthew mourn!

For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, Ne'er to return.

O Henderson! the man! the brother!

And art thou gone, and gone for ever?