O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart; Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never Scotia's realm desert; But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! TAM O' SHANTER. A TALE. "Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Buke." GAWIN DOUGLAS. HEN chapman billies leave the street, An' folk begin to tak the gate; The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; Or catch'd wi' warlocks i' the mirk, Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd, sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises ! But to our tale: Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right; Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter; And ay 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 drowned himself 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, That flit ere you can point their place; 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 't wad blawn its last; The rattling show'rs rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet; Kirk Alloway was drawing nigh, By this time he was cross the ford, |