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 muffles 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 'cock'?
Tam Samson's dead!

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 dead!

The skilful curler

The

sports

man's death

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a';
Ye cootie muircocks, crousely craw;
Ye maukins, cock 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 tither 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 hoary 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,

Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly

Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie;

A moor

land

grave

Тоа musical

friend

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 unbrack'd filly,

Proud o' her speed.

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 vile warl'.

Until

you on a crummock driddle,

A grey-hair'd carl.

Come wealth, come poortith late or soon,
Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune,
And screw your temper-pins aboon

(A fifth or mair)

The melancholious, sairie croon

O' cankrie care.

My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,
Wha count on poortith as disgrace;

Their tuneless hearts,

May fireside discords jar a base

To a' their parts!

But come, your hand, my careless brither,
I' th' ither warl', if there's anither,
(An' that there is, I've little swither

About the matter)

We, cheek for chow, shall jog thegither;
I'se ne'er bid better.

We've faults and failings-granted clearly,
We're frail backsliding mortals merely,
Eve's bonie squad, priests wyte them sheerly
For our grand fa';

But still, but still-I like them dearly;

God bless them a'!

Fiddlers and rhymers