But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and recís,
Put life and mettle in their heeis.

At winnock-bunker' in the east,

There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie' tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:

He screw'd the pipes and gart3 them skirl,*
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.-

Coffins stood round, like open presses,
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;
And by some devilish cantrip slight
Each in its cauld hand held a light,-
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,

A murderer's banes in gibbet airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red rusted;
Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
A knife, a father's throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son o' life bereft,
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',

Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu',

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious:

The piper loud and louder blew;

The dancers quick and quicker flew;

They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,

And coost her duddies' to the wark,

And linket at it in her sark!

Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans
A' plump and strapping in their teens;
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie" flannen,
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linnen!"
Thir" breeks o' mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair,
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies,'
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies!

1 Window-seat.

• Irons.

4 Scream. Tripped along.

2 Shaggy. $ Forced. 7 Clothes.

11 These.

12

• Magic. • Greasy.

10 The manufacturing term for a fine linen, woven in a reed of 1700 divisions.--Cromek.

12 Loins.

TAM O'SHANTER.

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, Lowping and flinging on a crummock,' I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

But Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie, "There was ae winsome wench and walie," That night enlisted in the core,

(Lang after kend on Carrick shore;
For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perished mony a bonnie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,"
And kept the country-side in fear)
Her cutty' sark, o' Paisley harn,*
That, while a lassie, she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.-
Ah! little kend thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches,)
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!

But here my muse her wing maun cour;
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was, and strang),
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitched,
And thought his very e'en enrich'd;
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main:
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a' thegither,

And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"

And in an instant all was dark;

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied,
As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,*

When plundering herds assail their byke;"
As open pussie's mortal foes,

When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,

When, "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;

So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow.
Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin!
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin!

153

In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane' of the brig;
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;"
But little wist she Maggie's mettle-
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain gray tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son, tak heed;
Whene'er to drink you are inclin❜d,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear,
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINA-
TIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, COLLECTING
THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM.

HEAR, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots,
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's;-

If there's a hole in a' your coats,

3

I rede you tent it;3

A chield's amang you, taking notes,

And, faith, he'll prent it.

If in your bounds ye chance to light
Upon a fine, fat, fodgel* wight,
O' stature short, but genius bright,

That's he, mark weel

And wow! he has an unco slight

O' cauk and keel.'

1 It is a well-known fact, that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any farther than the middle of the next running stream. It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back.-R. B.

I advise you to look to it.

2 Effort.

4 Plump. 5 Chalk and red clay.

CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS. 155

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,'
Or kirk deserted by its riggin,

It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in

Some eldritch part,

Wi' deils, they say, Lord safe's! colleaguin
At some black art.-

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer,
Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamor,

And you deep read in hell's black grammar,
Warlocks and witches;

Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer,

Ye midnight bitches.

It's tauld he was a sodger bred,
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled;
But now he's quat' the spurtle-blade,

And dog-skin wallet,

And ta'en the-Antiquarian trade,

I think they call it.

He has a fouth" o' auld nick-nackets;
Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets,*
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,"
A towmont gude,

And parritch-pats, and auld saut-backets,
Before the Flood.

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder;
Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender;
That which distinguished the gender
O' Balaam's ass;

A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor,
Weel shod wi' brass.

Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg,
The cut of Adam's philibeg;

The knife that nicket Abel's craig

He'll prove you fully,

Or lang-kail gullie."

It was a faulding jocteleg,"

1 Building
ng.-Vide his "Antiquities of Scotland."-R. B.

Has quitted.

A twelvemonth.

3 Plenty.

1 Clasp-knife.

• Vide his "Treatise on Ancient Armour and Weapons."-R. B. Nails.

Large knife

But wad ye see him in his glee—
For meikle glee and fun has he,-
Then set him down, and twa or three

Gude fellows wi' him;

And port, O port! shine thou a wee,

And then ye'll see him'

Now, by the Pow'rs o' verse and prose!
Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose!-
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose,

They sair misca' thee;

I'd take the rascal by the nose,

Wad say, Shame fa' thee!

ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT.1

INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye;
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart!

April, 1789.

Go, live, poor wanderer of the wood and field,
The bitter little that of life remains;

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed!
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head,
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait

The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn,
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn,
And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate

I have just put the last hand to a little poem, which I think will te something to your taste. One morning lately as I was out pretty early in the fields sowing some grass seeds, I heard the burst of a shot from a neighbouring plantation, and presently a poor little wounded hare came crippling by me.-R. B.