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TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY.

And frae his harp sic strains did flow,

Might roused the slumbering dead to hear;
But oh, it was a tale of woe,

As ever met a Briton's ear!

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141

TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY.2

"An honest man's the noblest work of God."-POPE.

HAS auld Kilmarnock seen the de'il ?

3

4

Or great Mackinlay thrawn his heel?
Or Robinson 5 again grown weel,

To preach and read?

"Na, waur than a'!" cries ilka chiel,
"Tam Samson's dead!"

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This poem, an imperfect copy of which was printed in "Johnson's Museum," is here given from the Poet's MS. with his last corrections. The scenery so finely described is taken from nature. The Poet is supposed to be musing by night on the banks of the river Cluden, or Clouden, and by the ruins of Lincluden Abbey, founded in the twelfth century, in the reign of Malcolm IV., of whose present situation the reader may find some account in Pennant's "Tour in Scotland," or Grose's Antiquities of that division of the island. Such a time and such a place are well fitted for holding converse with aërial beings. Though this poem has a political bias, yet it may be presumed that no reader of taste, whatever his opinions may be, would forgive its being omitted. Our Poet's prudence suppressed the song of "Libertie," perhaps fortunately for his reputation. It may be questioned whether, even in the resources of his genius, a strain of poetry could have been found worthy of the grandeur and solemnity of this preparation.—CURRIE.

When this worthy old sportsman went out last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, "the last of his fields ;" and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the Author composed his elegy and epitaph.-BURNS.

3 A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide "The Ordination," stanza ii.-BURNS.

• Twisted.

Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at that time ailing. For him, see also "The Ordination," stanza ix.—BURNS. 6 Cry alone.

1 Clothe.

And cleed' her bairns, man, wife, and wean,
In mourning weed;

To Death she's dearly paid the kane

2

Tam Samson's dead!

The brethren o' the mystic level
May hing their head in waefu' bevel,
While by their nose the tears will revel
Like ony bead;

Death's gi'en the lodge an unco devel 3-
Tam Samson's dead!

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In time o' need;

But now he lags on Death's hog-score

Tam Samson's dead!

Now safe the stately salmon sail,

And trouts be-dropped wi' crimson hail,
And eels weel kenned for souple tail,

And geds for greed,

Since dark in Death's fish-creel we wail

4 Pikes.
7 Gleefully.

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2 Rent paid in kind.
5 Whirring partridges.
8 Hares.

3 Blow.

6 Feather-legged. 9 Dress.

TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY.

In vain auld age his body batters;
In vain the gout his ankles fetters;
In vain the burns came down like waters,
An acre braid!

Now every auid wife, greetin', clatters,
Tam Samson's dead!

Owre mony a weary hag1 he limpit,
And aye the tither shot he thumpit,2
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 reeled his wonted bottle-swagger,
But yet he drew the mortal trigger

Wi' weel-aimed heed;

"Lord, five!" he cried, and owre did stagger-
Tam Samson's dead!

Ilk hoary hunter mourned a brither;
Ilk sportsman youth bemoaned a father:
Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather,
Marks out his head,

Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether,5
Tam Samson's dead!

There low he lies in lasting rest;
Perhaps upon his mouldering breast
Some spitefu' moorfowl 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 volleys let his memory crave

O' pouther and lead,

Till Echo answer, frae her cave,—

Tam Samson's dead!

Heaven rest his saul, whare'er he be!
Is the 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?

A scar or gulf in mosses and moors. 4 Sound.

3 Fend.

2 Thumped.
5 Nonsense.

143

144 ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURite child.

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.

66

When Tam Samson was old, he heard that Burns had made a poem on him. He sent at once for the Poet, and made him repeat it to him. When it was finished he exclaimed, I'm no dead yet, Robin, I'm worth ten dead fowk. Wherefore should ye say that I am dead?" Burns withdrew to a window, and in a minute or two returned with the following lines:

PER CONTRA.

Go, Fame, and canter like a filly,

Through a' the streets and neuks o' Killie,
Tell every social, honest billie

To cease his grievin',

For yet, unskaithed by Death's gleg gullie,"
Tam Samson's leevin'!

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CHILD.

OH, sweet be thy sleep in the land of the grave,

My dear little angel, for ever;

For ever-oh, no! let not man be a slave,

His hopes from existence to sever.

Though cold be the clay where thou pillow'st thy head,

In the dark silent mansions of sorrow,

The spring shall return to thy low narrow bed,
Like the beam of the day-star to-morrow.

The flower-stem shall bloom like thy sweet seraph form,
Ere the Spoiler had nipt thee in blossom;

When thou shrunk from the scowl of the loud winter storm,
And nestled thee close to that bosom.

Oh, still I behold thee, all lovely in death,

Reclined on the lap of thy mother,

When the tear trickled bright, when the short stifled breath, Told how dear ye were aye to each other.

1 Tam Samson survived Burns. The Epitaph is inscribed on his tombstone in Kilmarnock churchyard.

2 Killie is a phrase the country folks sometimes use for the name of a certain town in the west. The town was Kilmarnock. -BURNS.

3 Sharp knife.

These lines were written on the death of a little daughter of the Poet's. She died suddenly while he was absent from home.

REMORSE.

My child, thou art gone to the home of thy rest,
Where suffering no longer can harm ye,

145

Where the songs of the good, where the hymns of the blest,

Through an endless existence shall charm thee.

While he, thy fond parent, must sighing sojourn
Through the dire desert regions of sorrow,
O'er the hope and misfortune of being to mourn,
And sigh for his life's latest morrow,

REMORSE.

[Taken from a collection of MSS. which Burns placed in the hands of his friend, Mrs. Riddel.]

Or all the numerous ills that hurt our peace,

That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish,
Beyond comparison the worst are those

That to our folly or our guilt we owe.

In

every other circumstance, the mind

Has this to say-"It was no deed of mine;"
But when to all the evil of misfortune

This sting is added-" Blame thy foolish self!"
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse;
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt-
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others;
The young, the innocent, who fondly loved us,
Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin!
O burning hell! in all thy store of torments
There's not a keener lash!

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime,
Can reason down its agonizing throbs,
And, after proper purpose of amendment,
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace?
O happy, happy, enviable man!

O glorious magnanimity of soul!

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