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 cried, an' owre did stagger; Tam Samson's dead!

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither;
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father;
Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather,

Marks out his head,

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

There low he lies in lasting rest;
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast
Some spitfu' 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 volleys let his memory crave

O' pouther an' lead,

Till Echo answer frae her cave

'Tam Samson's dead!'

Heav'n rest his saul, where'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 ere ye win near him.

כל

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90

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'!

A WINTER NIGHT.

WHEN biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;
When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r,

Far south the lift,

Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r

Or whirling drift;

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked,
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked,
While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up-choked,
Wild-eddying swirl,

Or, thro' the mining outlet bocked,

Down headlong hurl;

List'ning the doors an' winnocks rattle
I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle

O' winter war,

And thro' the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle

Beneath a scar.

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing!
That, in the merry months o' spring,
Delighted me to hear thee sing,

What comes o' thee?

Where wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing,

An' close thy e'e?

100

IO

20

30

Ev'n you, on murd'ring errands toil'd,
Lone from your savage homes exil'd,-
The blood-stained roost and sheep-cote spoil'd
My heart forgets,

While pitiless the tempest wild

Sore on you beats.

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign,
Dark muffl'd, view'd the dreary plain;
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,
Rose in my soul,

When on my ear this plaintive strain,

Slow, solemn, stole:

'Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost!
Descend, ye chilly smothering snows!
Not all your rage, as now united, shows
More hard unkindness unrelenting,
Vengeful malice unrepenting,

Than heav'n-illumin'd man on brother man bestows!
See stern Oppression's iron grip,

Or mad Ambition's gory hand,

Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip,

Woe, want, and murder o'er a land!

Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale,

Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale

How pamper'd Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side,
The parasite empoisoning her ear,

With all the servile wretches in the rear,
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide;
And eyes the simple rustic hind,

Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show,

A creature of another kind,

Some coarser substance, unrefin'd,

Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below.

Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe,
With lordly Honour's lofty brow,

The pow'rs you proudly own?

Is there, beneath Love's noble name,
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim
To bless himself alone?

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40

Mark maiden-innocence a prey

To love-pretending snares;
This boasted honour turns away,
Shunning soft pity's rising sway,

Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs !
Perhaps this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest,
She strains your infant to her joyless breast,
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast!

Oh ye! who, sunk in beds of down,
Feel not a want but what yourselves create,
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate,
Whom friends and fortune quite disown!
Ill satisfied keen nature's clam'rous call,
Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep,
While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall,
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap!
Think on the dungeon's grim confine,
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine!
Guilt, erring man, relenting view!
But shall thy legal rage pursue

The wretch, already crushed low,

By cruel fortune's undeserved blow?
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress;
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!'.

I heard nae mair; for Chanticleer
Shook off the pouthery snaw,

And hail'd the morning with a cheer,
A cottage-rousing craw.

But deep this truth impress'd my mind-
Thro' all His works abroad,

The heart benevolent and kind

The most resembles God.

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SCOTCH DRINK.

Gie him strong drink, until he wink,
That's sinking in despair;

An' liquor guid to fire his bluid,

That's prest wi' grief an' care;
There let him bouse, an' deep carouse,
Wi bumpers flowing o'er,

Till he forgets his loves or debts,

An' minds his griefs no more.

SOLOMON (Proverbs xxxi. 6, 7.

LET other Poets raise a fracas

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus, An' crabbèd names an' stories wrack us,

An' grate our lug;

I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us,
In glass or jug.

O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink,
Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink,

In glorious faem,

Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink,

To sing thy name!

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,
An' aits set up their awnie horn,
An' pease an' beans at een or morn,
Perfume the plain;

Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,

Thou King o' grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,
In souple scones, the wale o' food!
Or tumblin' in the boiling flood

Wi' kail an' beef;

But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood,
There thou shines chief.

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