Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast
Some spitfu' muirfowl bigs her nest, builds
To hatch and breed;
Alas! nae mair he'll them molest!
Tam Samson's dead!
When August winds the heather wave,
And sportsmen wander by yon grave,
Three volleys let his memory crave
O' pouther an' lead, powder
Till Echo answer frae her cave