Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a';
Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw;
Ye maukins cock your fud fu' braw,
Withouten dread;

Your mortal fae is now awa',

Tam Samson's dead!

That woefu' 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 return'd! Tam Samson's dead!

In vain auld age his body batters;
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!"

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 heed;

"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,
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

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,
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, 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 :

Tam Samson's dead!

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.

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'.

"When this worthy old sportsman," says the Poet, in a note, “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

* Killie is a phrase the country-folks sometimes use for Kilmarnock.

muirs. On this hint the Author composed his elegy and epitaph." No poet ever emblazoned fact with fiction more happily than Burns: the hero of this poem was a country sportsman, who loved curling on the ice in winter, and shooting on the moors in the season. no longer able to

"Guard or draw a wick or bore,

Or up the rink like Jehu roar
In time of need;"

or march over hill and hagg in quest of

"Paitricks, teals, moor-pouts, and plivers,"

When

he loved to lie on the lang-settle, and listen to the deeds of others on field and flood; and when a good tale was told, he would cry "Hech man! three at a shot; that was famous !" Some one informed Tam that Burns had written a poem-"a gay queer ane"-concerning him: he sent for the Bard, and in something like wrath, requested to hear it: he smiled grimly at the relation of his exploits, and then cried out, "I'm no dead yet, Robin -I'm worth ten dead fowk: wherefore should ye say that I am dead?" Burns took the hint, retired to the window for a minute's space or so, and coming back, recited the Per Contra, Go, fame, an' canter like a filly." Tam was so delighted that he rose unconsciously, rubbed his hands, and exclaimed, "That'll do-ha! ha!— that'll do!" The poetic epitaph is inscribed on his gravestone in the churchyard of Kilmarnock; he survived the writing of the elegy and—the hand that wrote it.

66

SECOND EPISTLE

ΤΟ

DAVIE,

A BROTHER POET.

AULD NIBOR,

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, For your auld-farrent, frien'ly letter; Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, Ye speak sae fair,

For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter

Some less maun sair

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle;
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle
O' war❜ly cares,

Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle

Your auld, gray hairs.

But DAVIE, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit; I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit;

An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket

Until ye fyke;

Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket,

Be hain't wha like.