Na, waur than a'!' cries ilka chiel, Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane, To Death she's dearly pay'd the kane, The Brethren o' the mystic level May hing their head in wofu' bevel, While by their nose the tears will revel, Like ony bead; Death's gien the Lodge an unco devel, When Winter muffles up his cloak, Wi' gleesome spied, 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 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; Withoutten dread; * Changed to "sab" in 1794. Your mortal Fae is now awa', Tam Samson's dead! That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd But, Och! he gaed and ne'er return'd! In vain Auld-age his body batters; Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin, clatters, 'Tam Samson's dead!' Owre monie a weary hag he limpit, When at his heart he felt the dagger, Wi' weel-aim'd heed; 'L-d, five!' he cry'd, an' owre did stagger; Ilk hoary Hunter mourn'd a brither; Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, Tam Samson's dead!* Here, in 1793, the author introduced the following characteristic verse: "There, low he lies in lasting rest; Alas! nae mair he'll them molest,- Tam Samson's dead!" Match that verse who can!-HOGG. When August winds the heather wave, O' pouther an' lead, Till Echo answer frae her cave, Tam Samson's dead! Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be! Yet what remead? Ae social, honest man want we: Tam Samson's dead! THE EPITAPH. Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies, PER CONTRA. Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly Tell ev'ry social, honest billie To cease his grievin, For yet, unskaith'd by Death's gleg gullie, Tam Samson's livin! * The Ettrick Shepherd, in 1834, has the following note on this poem:-"This has always been a great country favourite. From 20 to 30 years ago, you could not have met a lad or boy in Scotland who could not have rhymed over to you Tam Samson's Elegy. I cannot resist pointing out some of those peculiarly happy expressions here, which tend to give the poems of Burns their zest: 'Death's gien the Lodge an unco devel.'— It is impossible for any expression to excel this; the picture of the curling, too, is inimitable. 'And eels weel kend for souple tail.' I never heard anybody read or repeat this without laughing. 'Ye maukins, cock your fuds fu' braw.'We actually see the hare flinging up her short tail disdainfully. 'In vain the burns cam down like waters, An acre braid!' What a picture of a flooded burn! Any other poet would have given us a long description; but Burns dashes it down in a style so graphic, no one can mistake it." † Killie is a phrase the country-folks sometimes use for the name of a certain town in the West.-(R. B. 1787.) A WINTER NIGHT. Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides, Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you SHAKESPEARE. [This is another of those pieces which the author must have had "on the stocks" and unfinished at the time of his Kilmarnock publication. Amid many exquisite touches of tenderness, there is in it much of the gloomy grandeur of "Man was made to Mourn." In the following withering passage, we at once recognise the hand that wrote the two stanzas of that Dirge commencing with See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight": 66 -pamper'd Luxury Surveys her Property extended wide, Whose toil upholds the glittering show A creature of another kind Some coarser substance unrefin'd, Placed for her lordly use thus far-thus vile, below!" The bard has headed this production with a motto from King Lear's sublime exclamations during the storm on the heath, at the door of the hovel, and the poem throughout shows that he had been studying Shakespeare: indeed, the passage commencing-"Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!" is little else than a fine paraphrase of the famous song on "Man's Ingratitude" in As You LIKE IT: "Blow, blow, thou bitter wind! thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude: Thy tooth is not so keen, because thou art not seen, Though thou the waters warp, thy sting is not so sharp Carlyle's remarks on this poem are worth quoting:-"How touching is it, amid the gloom of personal misery that broods over and around him, that even amid the storm he thinks of the ourie cattle, the silly sheep, and the wee helpless birdies!' yes, the tenant of the mean, lowly hut has the heart of pity for all these. This is worth a whole volume of homilies on mercy; for it is the voice of mercy itself. Burns lives in sympathy: his soul rushes forth into all the realms of being: nothing that has existence can be indifferent to him."] e WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure, Or whirling drift. H Ae night the Storm the steeples rocked, Wild-eddying swirl, Or thro' the mining outlet bocked, Down headlong hurl. List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle O' winter war, And thro' the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle, Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing! What comes o' thee? Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd, My heart forgets, While pityless the tempest wild Sore on you beats. Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, When on my ear this plaintive strain, Slow-solemn, stole 'Blow, blow, ye Winds, with heavier gust! 'Than heaven-illumin'd Man on brother Man bestows! |