An' getting fou and unco happy, full, mighty
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, bogs, gaps
That lie between us and our hame,
Where 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, found
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter—one
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses