She ventured forward on the light;
And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillion brent new frae France,

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and metal in their heels.

A winnock-bunker in the east,

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge;
He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.

Coffins stood round like open presses, That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; And, by some devilish cantraip slight, Each in its cauld hand held a light,

By which heroic Tam was able

To note upon the haly table

A murderer's banes in gibbet airns;

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,

Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted;
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
A knife, a father's throat had mangled,

Whom his ain son o' life bereft,

The gray hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',

Which e'en to name wad be unlawfu'.

As Tammie glower'd, amazed and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious; The piper loud and louder blew;

The dancers quick and quicker flew;

They reeled, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,

Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,

And coost her duddies to the wark,

And linkit at it in her sark!

Now, Tam, oh, Tam! had they been queans

A' plump and strapping, in their teens,
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,
Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen,
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,

That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair,
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies,
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies!
But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Louping an' flinging on a crummock,
I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie.

There was ae winsome wench and waulie,

That night enlisted in the core

(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore!

For mony a beast to dead she shot,

And perish'd mony a bonny boat,

And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear).

Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,

That while a lassie she had worn,

In longitude though sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.

Ah, little kenned thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever graced a dance of witches!

But here my muse her wing maun cour; Sic flights are far beyond her power: To sing how Nannie lap and flang (A supple jade she was and strang), And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, And thought his very e'en enrich'd,

Even Satan glower'd, and fidged fu' fain, And hotched and blew wi' might and main, Till first ae caper, syne anither,

Tam tint his reason a' thegither,

And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty sark!"
And in an instant all was dark;

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,

When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,

When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;

So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow.

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin'! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin'! Kate soon will be a wofu' woman! Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane o' the brig!

There at them thou thy tail may toss-
A running stream they darena cross.
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle.
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain gray tail;
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed:
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,
Or cutty sarks run in your mind,
Think! ye may buy the joys o'er dear-
Remember Tam O'Shanter's mare.

The Death of Poor Mailie

'As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither,
Was ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch;
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc he cam doytin' by.

Wi' glowerin' een, and lifted han's,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, wae's my heart! he couldna mend it!
He gapéd wide, but naething spak;

At length poor Mailie silence brak: