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"There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless Maid,
And guileless trust,
Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of simple Bard,
Of prudent lore,
And whelm him o'er!
Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n,
To mis'ry's brink, Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heaven,
He, ruin'd, sink!
Ev'n thou who mourn’st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine--no distant date;
Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate
Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom!
Full are drives, elate
TAM O' SHANTER.
When chapman billies leave the street, - And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, As market-days are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak the gate ; While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' gettin fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonny lasses.)
O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise, As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
But to our tale: Ae market night,
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
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 Evanishing amid the storm. . Nae man can tether time or 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 rattlin show'rs 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,
By this time he was cross the ford,
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!