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An
honest man's the noblest work of God - POPE
Has
auld Kilmarnock seen the Deil?
Or great Mackinlay thrawn his heel?
Or Robertson again grown weel,
To preach an read?
'Na, waur than a'!' cries ilka chiel,
'Tam Samson's dead!'
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 kain:
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 onie 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!
He was
the king of 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?kend 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 moorcocks, 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 shootin 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!'
Owre
monie a weary hag he limpit,
An ay the tither shot he thumpit,
Till coward Death behint him jumpit,
Wi deadly feide;
Now he proclaims wi tout o trumpet:
'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;
'Lord, five!' he cry'd, an owre did stagger ?
Tam Samson's dead!
Ilk
hoary hunter mourn'd a brither;
Ilk sportsman?youth bemoan'd a father;
Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather,
Marks out his head;
Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether,
'Tam Samson's dead!'
There,
low he lies in lasting rest;
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast
Some spitefu moorfowl bigs her nest,
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,
Till Echo answer frae her cave,
'Tam Samson's dead!'
'Heav'n
rest his saul whare'er he be!'
Is th' wish o' monie mae than me:
He had twa fauts, or maybe three,
Yet what remead?
Ae social, honest man want we:
Tam Samson's dead!
THE
EPITAPH
Tam
Samson's weel?worn clay here lies:
Ye canting zealots, spare him!
If honest worth in Heaven rise,
Ye'll mend or ye win near him.
PER
CONTRA
Go,
Fame, an canter like a filly
Thro a' the streets an neuks o Killie;
Tell ev'ry social honest billie
To cease his grievin;
For, yet unskaith'd by Death's gleg gullie,
Tam Samson's leevin!
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