Chapter V · DESCRIPTIVE AND NARRATIVE POETRY (continued 2)

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? Or great Mackinlay thrawn his heel? twisted Or Robertson again grown weel, To preach an' read? ‘Na, waur than a'!’ cries ilka chiel, worse, everybody ‘Tam Samson's dead!’ Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane, groan An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane, weep alone An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean, clothe, child In mourning weed; To death, she's dearly paid the kane,—rent in kind Tam Samson's dead! The Brethren o' the mystic level May hing their head in woefu' bevel, slope While by their nose the tears will revel, Like ony bead; Death's gien the Lodge an unco devel,—stunning blow Tam Samson's dead! When Winter muffles up his cloak, And binds the mire like a rock; When to the loughs the curler's flock ponds Wi' gleesome speed, Wha will they station at the cock? mark Tam Samson's dead! He was the king o' a' the core gang To guard, or draw, or wick a bore,[23] Or up the rink like Jehu roar In time o' need; But now he lags on Death's hogscore,[24]— Tam Samson's dead! Now safe the stately sawmont sail, salmon And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, And eels weel kent for souple tail, And geds for greed, pikes Since dark in Death's fish-creel we wail Tam Samson's dead! Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a'; whirring partridges Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw; leg-plumed, confidently Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, hares, tail 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, attire While pointers round impatient burn'd, Frae couples freed; But oh! 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, brooks, lakes An acre braid! Now ev'ry auld wife, greeting clatters weeping ‘Tam Samson's dead!’ Owre mony a weary hag he limpit, moss An' aye the tither shot he thumpit, Till coward Death behin' him jumpit Wi' deadly feide; feud Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, blast ‘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; ‘Lord, five!’ he cried, an' owre did stagger; Tam Samson's dead! Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither; Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father; Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather, Marks out his head, Where Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, nonsense ‘Tam Samson's dead!’ There low he lies in lasting rest; Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast Some spitfu' muirfowl bigs her nest, builds To hatch and 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 memory crave O' pouther an' lead, powder Till Echo answer frae her cave ‘Tam Samson's dead!’ ‘Heav'n rest his saul, where'er he be!’ Is th' wish o' mony mae than me: more He had twa fauts, or maybe three, Yet what remead? remedy Ae social honest man want we: One Tam Samson's dead! the epitaph Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies: Ye canting zealots, spare him! If honest worth in heaven rise, Ye'll mend ere ye win near him. Per Contra Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie, nooks Tell ev'ry social honest billie fellow To cease his grievin', For yet, unskaith'd by Death's gleg gullie, unharmed, nimble knife Tam Samson's livin'!

O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody! The meikle devil wi' a woodie big, gallows-rope Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie Drag, smithy O'er hurcheon hides, hedgehog And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie anvil Wi' thy auld sides! He's gane, he's gane! he's frae us torn, gone The ae best fellow e'er was born! one Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel' shall mourn By wood and wild, Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn, Frae man exil'd. Ye hills, near neibors o' the starns, stars That proudly cock your cresting cairns! mounds Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns, eagles Where echo slumbers! Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, children My wailing numbers! Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens! each, dove Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens! woods Ye burnies, wimplin' down your glens, winding Wi' toddlin din, Or foaming strang wi' hasty stens heaps Frae lin to lin. fall Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; Ye stately foxgloves fair to see; Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, In scented bow'rs; Ye roses on your thorny tree, The first o' flow'rs. At dawn when ev'ry grassy blade Droops with a diamond at his head, At ev'n when beans their fragrance shed I' th' rustling gale, Ye maukins, whiddin' thro' the glade, hares, scudding Come join my wail. Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; Ye grouse that crap the heather bud; crop Ye curlews calling thro' a clud; cloud Ye whistling plover; And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood—partridge He's gane for ever! Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; Ye fisher herons, watching eels; Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels Circling the lake; Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, Rair for his sake. Boom Mourn, clamouring craiks at close o' day, corncrakes 'Mang fields o' flowering clover gay; And, when ye wing your annual way Frae our cauld shore, Tell thae far warlds wha lies in clay, those Wham we deplore. Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r owls In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, haunted What time the moon wi' silent glow'r stare Sets up her horn, Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour Till waukrife morn! wakeful O rivers, forests, hills, and plains! Oft have ye heard my canty strains; cheerful But now, what else for me remains But tales of woe? And frae my een the drapping rains eyes Maun ever flow. Must Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year! Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear: catch Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear Shoots up its head, Thy gay green flow'ry tresses shear For him that's dead! Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, In grief thy sallow mantle tear! Thou, Winter, hurling thro' the air The roaring blast, Wide o'er the naked warld, declare The worth we've lost! Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light! Mourn, empress of the silent night! And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, starlets My Matthew mourn! For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, Ne'er to return. O Henderson! the man! the brother! And art thou gone, and gone for ever? And hast thou crost that unknown river, Life's dreary bound? Like thee, where shall I find another, The world around? Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye great, In a' the tinsel trash o' state! But by thy honest turf I'll wait, Thou man of worth! And weep the ae best fellow's fate E'er lay in earth.

Gie him strong drink, until he wink, That's sinking in despair; An' liquor guid to fire his bluid, That's prest wi' grief an' care; There let him bouse, an' deep carouse, Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, Till he forgets his loves or debts, An' minds his griefs no more. Solomon (Proverbs xxxi. 6, 7). Let other Poets raise a fracas 'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus, An' crabbed names an' stories wrack us, An' grate our lug; ear I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us, barley In glass or jug. O thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch Drink, Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink, winding, dodge Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, cream In glorious faem, foam Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink, To sing thy name! Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, flat river-lands An' aits set up their awnie horn, oats, bearded An' pease an' beans at een or morn, Perfume the plain; Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, Commend me to Thou King o' grain! On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, chews, cud In souple scones, the wale o' food! soft cakes, choice Or tumblin' in the boiling flood Wi' kail an' beef; But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, There thou shines chief. Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin'; belly Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin', But, oil'd by thee, The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin' careering Wi' rattlin' glee. Thou clears the head o' doited Lear: muddled Learning Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care; Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, At's weary toil: Thou even brightens dark Despair Wi' gloomy smile. Aft, clad in massy siller weed, Wi' gentles thou erects thy head; Yet humbly kind, in time o' need, The poor man's wine, His wee drap parritch, or his bread, Thou kitchens fine. makest palatable Thou art the life o' public haunts; But thee, what were our fairs and rants? Without, frolics Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, saints By thee inspir'd, When gaping they besiege the tents, Are doubly fir'd. That merry night we get the corn in! O sweetly then thou reams the horn in! foamest Or reekin' on a New-Year mornin' smoking In cog or bicker, bowl, cup An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, whisky An' gusty sucker! tasty sugar When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, implements O rare to see thee fizz an' freath froth I' th' lugged caup! two-eared cup Then Burnewin comes on like death The Blacksmith At ev'ry chaup. blow Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel; iron The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel, bony, fellow Brings hard owre-hip, wi' sturdy wheel, The strong forehammer, Till block an' studdie ring an' reel anvil Wi' dinsome clamour. When skirlin' weanies see the light, squalling babies Thou maks the gossips clatter bright How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight—dolts Wae worth the name! Nae Howdie gets a social night, Midwife Or plack frae them. small coin When neibors anger at a plea, lawsuit An' just as wud as wud can be, mad How easy can the barley-bree -brew Cement the quarrel! It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee To taste the barrel. Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason To wyte her countrymen wi' treason; blame But mony daily weet their weasan' throat Wi' liquors nice, An' hardly, in a winter's season, E'er spier her price. ask Wae worth that brandy, burning trash! Fell source o' mony a pain an' brash? illness Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash, Robs, stupid, drunken oaf O' half his days; An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash To her warst faes. Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well, Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, Poor plackless devils like mysel' penniless It sets you ill, becomes Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, meddle Or foreign gill. May gravels round his blather wrench, ladder An' gouts torment him, inch by inch, Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch face, growl O' sour disdain, Out owre a glass o' whisky punch Wi' honest men! O Whisky! soul o' plays an' pranks! Accept a bardie's gratefu' thanks! When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks creakings Are my poor verses! Thou comes—they rattle i' their ranks At ither's arses! Thee, Ferintosh![25] O sadly lost! Scotland, lament frae coast to coast! Now colic-grips an' barkin' hoast cough May kill us a'; For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast Is ta'en awa! Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, These Wha mak the whisky stells their prize—stills Haud up thy hand, deil! Ance—twice—thrice! There, seize the blinkers! spies An' bake them up in brunstane pies brimstone For poor damn'd drinkers. Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still Hale breeks, a bannock, and a gill, Whole breeches, oatmeal cake An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, plenty Tak' a' the rest, An' deal'd about as thy blind skill Directs thee best.

Fair fa' your honest sonsie face, jolly Great chieftain o' the puddin'-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Above Painch, tripe, or thairm: Paunch, guts Weel are ye wordy o' a grace worthy As lang's my arm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill; buttocks Your pin wad help to mend a mill skewer In time o' need; While thro' your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic Labour dight, wipe An' cut you up wi' ready sleight, skill Trenching your gushing entrails bright Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin', rich! -smoking Then, horn for horn they stretch an' strive, spoon Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive, Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve well-swelled bellies soon Are bent like drums; Then auld guidman, maist like to rive, burst ‘Be-thankit!’ hums. Is there that o'er his French ragout, Or olio that wad staw a sow, sicken Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi' perfect sconner, disgust Looks down wi' sneering scornfu' view On sic a dinner? Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckless as a wither'd rash, feeble, rush His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, His nieve a nit: fist, nut Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, O how unfit! But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed— The trembling earth resounds his tread! Clap in his walie nieve a blade, ample fist He'll mak it whissle; An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned, crop Like taps o' thrissle. thistle Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware watery stuff That jaups in luggies; splashes, porringers But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer, Gie her a Haggis!

Is there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, Too Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, bashful, cringe Let him draw near; And owre this grassy heap sing dool, woe And drap a tear. Is there a bard of rustic song, Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, That weekly this area throng, O, pass not by! But, with a frater-feeling strong, Here heave a sigh. Is there a man whose judgment clear, Can others teach the course to steer. Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, Wild as the wave; Here pause—and, thro' the starting tear, Survey this grave. The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn and wise to know, And keenly felt the friendly glow, And softer flame; But thoughtless follies laid him low, And stain'd his name! Reader, attend! whether thy soul Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, In low pursuit; Know prudent, cautious self-control Is wisdom's root.