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