| |
| HAS auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? | |
| Or great Mackinlay 1 thrawn his heel? | |
| Or Robertson 2 again grown weel, | |
| To preach an’ read? | |
| “Na’ waur than a’! cries ilka chiel, | 5 |
| “Tam Samson’s dead!” | |
| |
| Kilmarnock lang may grunt an’ grane, | |
| An’ sigh, an’ sab, an’ greet her lane, | |
| An’ cleed her bairns, man, wife, an’ wean, | |
| In mourning weed; | 10 |
| To Death she’s dearly pay’d the kane— | |
| Tam Samson’s dead! | |
| |
| The Brethren, o’ the mystic level | |
| May hing their head in woefu’ bevel, | |
| While by their nose the tears will revel, | 15 |
| Like ony bead; | |
| Death’s gien the Lodge an unco devel; | |
| Tam Samson’s dead! | |
| |
| When Winter muffles up his cloak, | |
| And binds the mire like a rock; | 20 |
| When to the loughs the curlers flock, | |
| Wi’ gleesome speed, | |
| Wha will they station at the “cock?” | |
| Tam Samson’s dead! | |
| |
| When Winter muffles up his cloak, | 25 |
| 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 o’ need; | |
| But now he lags on Death’s “hog-score”— | 30 |
| Tam Samson’s dead! | |
| |
| Now safe the stately sawmont sail, | |
| And trouts bedropp’d wi’ crimson hail, | |
| And eels, weel-ken’d for souple tail, | |
| And geds for greed, | 35 |
| Since, dark in Death’s fish-creel, we wail | |
| Tam Samson’s dead! | |
| |
| Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a’; | |
| Ye cootie muircocks, crousely craw; | |
| Ye maukins, cock your fud fu’ braw | 40 |
| Withouten dread; | |
| Your mortal fae is now awa; | |
| Tam Samson’s dead! | |
| |
| That woefu’ morn be ever mourn’d, | |
| Saw him in shooting graith adorn’d, | 45 |
| While pointers round impatient burn’d, | |
| Frae couples free’d; | |
| But och! he gaed and ne’er return’d! | |
| Tam Samson’s dead! | |
| |
| In vain auld age his body batters, | 50 |
| In vain the gout his ancles fetters, | |
| In vain the burns cam down like waters, | |
| An acre braid! | |
| Now ev’ry auld wife, greetin, clatters | |
| “Tam Samson’s dead!” | 55 |
| |
| Owre mony a weary hag he limpit, | |
| An’ aye the tither shot he thumpit, | |
| Till coward Death behind him jumpit, | |
| Wi’ deadly feid; | |
| Now he proclaims wi’ tout o’ trumpet, | 60 |
| “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-aimed heed; | 65 |
| “L—d, five!” he cry’d, 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, | 70 |
| Marks out his head; | |
| Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, | |
| “Tam Samson’s dead!” | |
| |
| There, low he lies, in lasting rest; | |
| Perhaps upon his mould’ring breast | 75 |
| Some spitefu’ muirfowl bigs her nest | |
| To hatch an’ breed: | |
| Alas! nae mair he’ll them molest! | |
| Tam Samson’s dead! | |
| |
| When August winds the heather wave, | 80 |
| 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!” | 85 |
| |
| Heav’n rest his saul whare’er he be! | |
| Is th’ wish o’ mony mae than me: | |
| He had twa fauts, or maybe three, | |
| Yet what remead? | |
| Ae social, honest man want we: | 90 |
| 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 or ye win near him. | 95 |
| |
PER CONTRA
Go, Fame, an’ canter like a filly | |
| Thro’ a’ the streets an’ neuks o’ Killie; 3 | |
| Tell ev’ry social honest billie | |
| To cease his grievin’; | |
| For, yet unskaithed by Death’s gleg gullie. | 100 |
| Tam Samson’s leevin’! | |
