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;