‘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;