The toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt and Fox,
An' our guidwife's wee birdy-cocks;

The ane is game, a bluidy devil,
But to the hen-birds unco civil;

The tither's dour, has nae sic breedin',
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden!

Ye ministers, come, mount the pulpit'
An' cry till ye be hoarse an' rupit;
For Eighty-eight, he wish'd you weel,
An' gied you a' baith gear an meal:
E'en monie a plack, an' monie a peck,
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck!

Ye bonie lasses, dight your een,
For some o' you hae tint a frien';
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was taen
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again!

Observe the very nowt an' sheep,
How dowff an' dowie now they creep;
Nay, ev'n the yirth itsel' does cry,
For Embro' wells are grutten dry.

O Eighty-nine! thou's but a bairn,
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn!
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care,
Thou now has got thy daddy's chair,
Nae hand-cuff'd, muzzl'd, half-shackl'd reger
But, like himself, a full, free agent:
Be sure ye follow out the plan
Nae waur than he did, honest man'

As muckle better as you can.

January 1, 1789.

"Na, waur than a'!" cries like a chiel,

K

Tam Samson's dead!

lang may grunt an' grane,

An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane,

An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an' wea▲,
In mourning weed;

To death she's dearly paid the kane:

Tam Samson's dead!

The brethren of the mystic level,
May hing their head in wofu' bevel,
While by the nose the tears will revel,
Like onie bead;

Death's gien the lodge an unco devel:

Tam Samson's dead!

• When this worthy old sportsman went out last muir-fow! 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.

↑ A certain preacher, a great favorite with the milion. Vide the Or dination, stanza ii.

Another preacher, an equal favorite with the few, who was at tha time ailing. For him, see also the Ordination, stanza ix.

Wher. Winter muffles up his cloak,
And binds the mire up like a rock;
When to the loughs the curlers flock,
Wi' gleesome speed,

Wha will they station at the cock?
Tam Samson's dead!

He was the king o' a' the core,
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore,
Or up the rink like Jehu roar,

In time of need;

But now he lags on death's hog-score. Tam Samson's dead!

Now safe the stately sawmont sail, And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, And eels well kenn'd 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 cootle muircocks, crousely craw,
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw,
Withouten dread;

Your mortal fae is now awa':

Tam Samson's dead!

That wofu' morn be ever mourn'd,
Saw him in shootin' graith adorn'd,
While pointers round impatient burn'd,
Frae couples freed;

But, och he gaed, and ne'er returned
Tam Samson's dead!

In vain auld age his body batters;
In vain the gout his ancles fetters!
In vain the burns come down like waters
An acre braid!

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

Owre many a weary hag he limpit,
An' ay the tither shot he thumpit,
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 reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger,
But yet he drew the mortal trigger
Wi' weel-aim'd deed;

"L-d, 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 gray stane, amang the heather,
Marks out his head,

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

There low he lies, in lasting rest;
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest
To hatch an breed

Alas! nae mair he'd them molest!

Tam Samson's dead'

When August winds the heather wave,
And sportsmen wander by yon grave,
Three volleys let his mem'ry 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 the wish o' monie mae than me:
He had twa faults, or may be three,
Yet what remead?

Ae social honest man want we;

Tam Samson's dead!

THE EPITAPH.

TAM SAMSON'S weel-born clay here lies;

Ye canting zealots spare him! If honest worth in heaven rise,

Ye'll ment or ye won near him.