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I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies,
For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
160 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 wawlie, 165 That night enlisted in the core,

Lang after kend on Carrick shore;
(For monie a beast to dead she shot,
An' perish'd monie a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
170 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. 175 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, 180 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 bewitch'd, And thought his very een enrich'd;

185 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!'

190 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;
195 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,

200 Wi' monie an eldritch skriech and hollow.

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! 206 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,
210 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!
215 Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
220 Ilk man and mother's son, take 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.

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A RED, RED ROSE.
[From Johnson's Musical Museum V (1796)]

O, my luve 's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O, my luve 's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I,

And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun!
And I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run. 12
And fare thee weel, my only luve,

And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile! 16

IS THERE FOR HONEST POVERTY.
[Sent to G. Thomson in January 1795]

Is there for honest poverty
That hings his head, an' a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by -
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,

Our toils obscure, an' a' that, The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 8 The man's the gowd for a' that.

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For a' that, an' a' that,

His ribband, star, an' a' that,
The man o' independent mind,

He looks an' laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that!
But an honest man 's aboon his
might,

Guid faith, he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,

Their dignities, an' a' that,
The pith o' sense an' pride o' worth
Are higher rank than a' that.

24

28

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SWEET AFTON.

[Sent to Mrs. Dunlop, 5 Febr. 1789]

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream!

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,
8 I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair!

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills;
There daily I wander, as noon rises high,

12 My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There oft, as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea,
16 The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,

20 As, gath'ring sweet flow'rets, she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
24 Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream!

O, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST.
[Comp. 1796-publ. posth. 1800]

O, wert thou in the cauld blast

On yonder lea, on yonder lea, My plaidie to the angry airt,

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee; Or did Misfortune's bitter storms

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield should be my bosom, 8 To share it a', to share it a'.

Or were I in the wildest waste,

Sae black and bare, sae black andbare, The desert were a paradise,

If thou wert there, if thou wert there; 12 Or were I monarch of the globe,

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, The brightest jewel in my crown

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 16

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