"An honest man's the noblest work of God;" And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road,
The cottage leaves the palace far behind. What is a lordling's pomp?—a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined!
O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!
For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent Long may the hardy sons of rustic toil
Be blest with health, and peace and sweet content! And, oh! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile! Then, howe'er crown and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle.
O Thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide
That stream'd through Wallace's undaunted
heart,
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second glorious part,
The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!
Oh, never, never, Scotia's realm desert;
But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard,
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!
WHEN chapman billies1 leave the street,
And drouthy neibors neibors meet,
As market days are wearin' late,
And folk begin to tak the gate; 3
While we sit bousing at the nappy,4
And gettin' fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses
For honest men and bonny lasses).
O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum,5
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum. 6
That frae November till October,
Ae market day thou wasna sober;
That ilka melder,* wi' the miller
2 Thirsty. 3 Road. 4 Ale. 5 A worthless fellow. 6 A talker of nonsense, a boaster, and a drunken fool.
* Any quantity of corn sent to the mill is called a melder.
Thou sat as iang as thou hadst зiller;'
That every naig2 was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jeant till Monday.
She prophesied that, late or soon,
Thou wouldst be found deep drown'd in Doon!
Or catch'd wi' warlocks i' the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames! its gars3 me greet
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!
But to our tale:-Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco1 right,
Fast by an ingle,5 bleezing finely;
Wi' reaming swat," that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither-
They had been fou for weeks thegither!
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter,
And aye the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favors secret, sweet, and precious;
The Souter tauld his queerest stories,
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair1 and rustle-
Tam didna mind the storm a whistle.
✦ Jean Kennedy who kept a public-house in Kirkoswald.
Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy!
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!
But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed!
Or like the snow fall in the river,
A moment white-then melts for ever;
Or like the borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form,
Evanishing amid the storm.
Nae man can tether time or tide;
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he takes the road in
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud deep and lang the thunder bellow'd:
That night a child might understand
The deil had business on his hand.
Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam skelpit' on through dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain and fire;
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet,
1 Rode with careless speed.
Whiles crooning' o'er some auld Scots sonnet;
Whiles glowering2 round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares:
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.
By this time he was 'cross the foord,
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;+
And past the birks and meikle stane
Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;
And through the whins, and by the cairn
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Whare Mungo's mither hanged hersel.
Before him Doon pours a' his floods;
The doubling storm roars through the woods;
The lightnings flash frae pole to pole;
Near and more near the thunders roll;
When, glimmering through the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze;
Through ilka bore the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst mak us scorn!
Wi' tipenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi' usquebae, we'll face the devil!—
The swats sae ream'd3 in Tammie's noddle,
Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle.
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd,
Till, by the heel and had admonish'd,
She ventured forward on the light;
1 Humming. 4 Got smothered. 2 Peering.
5 Every hole in the wall.
6 Twopenny ale.
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