A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, The grey hairs yet stack to the heft; As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, An linket at it in her sark! Now Tam, O Tam! had thay been queans But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie, There was ae winsom wench and walie, That night inlisted in the core, It was her best, and she was vauntie.- But here my muse her wing maun cour; Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade she was and strang) And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, And thought his very een enrich'd, Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out,' Weel done, Cutty-sark!' And in an instant all was dark : And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, As beez bizz out wi' angry fyke, When, pop! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd, Wi' mony an eldritch skreech and hollow. Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! Now, wha this tail o' truth shall read, It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any farther than the middle of the next running stream. It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back. ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A FE LLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art, Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains, To thee shall home, or food or pastime yield. Seek, mangled wretch, sóme place of wonted rest, No more of rest but now thy dying bed! The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMPSON. ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS. WHILE Virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, While summer with a matron grace Yet oft delighted stops to trace While Autumn, benefactor kind, While maniac Winter rages o'er The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, Or sweeping, wild a waste of snows: So long, sweet Poet of the year, Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; While Scotia, with exulting tear, Proclaims that Thomson was her son. |