Tam Samson's Elegy

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the Deil?

Or great M'Kinlay thrawn his heel?

Or Robinson again grown weel,

To preach an' read?

'Na, waur than a'!' cries ilka chiel,

'Tam Samson's dead!'

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 paid 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!

He was the king of 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 kend for souple tail,

And Geds for greed,

Since dark in Death's fish-creel we wail

Tam Samson dead!

Rejoice, ye birring Paitricks a';

Ye cootie Moorcocks, 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 never mourn'd,

Saw him in shootin graith adorn'd,

While pointers round impatient burn'd,

Frae couples freed;

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 came 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' ay the tither shot he thumpit,

Till coward Death behind him jumpit

Wi' deadly feide;

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-aim'd 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 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 vollies let his mem'ry 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 faults, 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,

Tell ev'ry social, honest billie

To cease his grievin,

For yet, unskaith'd by Death's gleg gullie,

Tam Samson's livin!