TAM SAMSON'S* ELEGY. An honest man's the noblest work of God. HAs auld K********* seen the Deil? Or great M*******+ thrawn his heel! To preach an' read? 'Na, waur than a'!' cries ilka chiel, 6 Tam Samson's dead!' POPE K********* * When this worthy old sportsman 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 muirs. On this hint the author composed his elegy and epitaph. + A certain preacher, a great favourite with the mil lion. Vide the Ordination, stanza II. Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at that time ailing. For him see also the Ordination, stanza IX. K********* lang may grunt an' grane, To death, she's dearly paid the kane, Tam Samson's dead! The brethren of the mystic level Death's gien the lodge an unco devel, When winter muffles up his cloak, And binds the mire 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, But now he lags on death's hog-score, In time of need; Tam Samson's dead! Now 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, Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail, Rejoice ye birring paitricks a' ; Withouten dread; Your mortal fae is now awa', Tam Samson's dead! That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd But, Och he gaed and ne'er return'd! In vain auld age his body batters; An acre braid! Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin, clatters, Tam Samson's dead! Owre Owre many a weary hag he limpit, Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 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 vollies 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! Yet what remead? Ae social, honest man want we: Tam Samson's dead! THE EPITAPH. TAM SAMSON'S weel-worn clay here lies, |