]
[Footnote 2: Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few,
who was at that time ailing.
[Footnote 2: Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few,
who was at that time ailing.
Robert Burns - Poems and Songs
When this worthy old sportman went out, last muirfowl season, he
supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, "the last of his fields," and
expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint
the author composed his elegy and epitaph. --R. B. , 1787.
Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?
Or great Mackinlay^1 thrawn his heel?
Or Robertson^2 again grown weel,
To preach an' read?
"Na' waur than a'! " cries ilka chiel,
"Tam Samson's dead! "
[Footnote 1: A certain preacher, a great favourite with the
million. Vide "The Ordination. " stanza ii. --R. B.
]
[Footnote 2: Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few,
who was at that time ailing. For him see also "The Ordination,"
stanza ix. --R. B. ]
Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane,
An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane,
An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean,
In mourning weed;
To Death she's dearly pay'd the kane--
Tam Samson's dead!
The Brethren, o' the mystic level
May hing their head in woefu' bevel,
While by their nose the tears will revel,
Like ony bead;
Death's gien the Lodge an unco devel;
Tam Samson's dead!
When Winter muffles up his cloak,
And binds the mire like a rock;
When to the loughs the curlers flock,
Wi' gleesome speed,
Wha will they station at the cock?
Tam Samson's dead!
When Winter muffles up his cloak,
He was the king o' a' the core,
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore,
Or up the rink like Jehu roar,
In time o' need;
But now he lags on Death's hog-score--
Tam Samson's dead!
Now safe the stately sawmont sail,
And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail,
And eels, weel-ken'd for souple tail,
And geds for greed,
Since, dark in Death's fish-creel, we wail
Tam Samson's dead!
Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a';
Ye cootie muircocks, crousely craw;
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw
Withouten dread;
Your mortal fae is now awa;
Tam Samson's dead!
That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd,
Saw him in shooting graith adorn'd,
While pointers round impatient burn'd,
Frae couples free'd;
But och! he gaed and ne'er return'd!
Tam Samson's dead!
In vain auld age his body batters,
In vain the gout his ancles fetters,
In vain the burns cam down like waters,
An acre braid!
Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin, clatters
"Tam Samson's dead!
