In this last we have Burns's summing
up of his own character, and it closes with his recommendation of the
virtue he strove after but could never attain.
TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY
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.
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