TAM O’SHANTER:
A TALE.
By ROBERT BURNS.
“Of brownyis and of bogilis full is this buke.”
—Gawin Douglas.
When chapman billies [147a] leave the street,
And drouthy [147b] neibors neibors meet,
As market days are wearin’ late,
And folk begin to tak the gate; [147h]
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
And gettin’ fou and unco’ [147c] happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, [147d] and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare 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, [147e]
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; [147f]
That frae November till October,
Ae market day thou wasna sober;
That ilka [147g] melder, [147i] wi’ the miller
Thou sat as lang as thou hadst siller;
That every naig 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 [148f] Jean till Monday.
She prophesied that, late or soon,
Thou wouldst be found deep drowned in Doon!
Or catched wi’ warlocks i’ the mirk, [148a]
By Alloway’s auld haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars [148b] me greet
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthened, 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, [148c] bleezing finely,
Wi’ reaming swats, [148d] 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’ 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—
Tam didna mind the storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E’en drowned himsel among the nappy! [148e]
As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure,
The minutes winged 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 snowfall 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 taks the road in
As never poor sinner was abroad in.