'She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunten blellum; Ae market-day thou was na sober; Ah, gentle dames! it gars 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 unco right, Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, 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 an clatter, And aye the ale was growing better: The landlady and Tam grew gracious Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious: The Souter tauld his queerest stories; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair and rustle, 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 of life victorious! But pleasures are like poppies spread, That flit ere you can point their place; 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 key-stane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in, And sic a night' he taks 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 Deit had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, Whiles haulding fast his gude blue bonnet; By this time Tam was cross the ford, Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing; Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! Wi' Usqueba, we'll face the devil! The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, She ventur'd forward on the light, There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; He screw'd the pipes, and gart them skirl, Coffins stood round like open presses, That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet-airns; Twa span-lang, wee unchristen'd bairns; As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: The Piper loud and louder blew; The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, Till ilka Carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark! Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans, A' plump and strapping in their teens; Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white, seventeen hundred linen! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies, For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies! But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, But Tam ken'd what was what fu' brawly, There was ae winsome wench and waly, That night enlisted in the core; (Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore; It was her best, and she was vaunty.— |