A Tale |
Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is
this Buke. GAWIN DOUGLAS |
When chapman billies leave the street, |
And drouthy neebors neebors meet ; |
As market-days are wearing late, |
An’ folk begin to tak the gate ; |
While we sit bousing at the nappy, |
An’ getting fou and unco happy, |
We think na on the lang Scots miles, |
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, |
That lie between us and our hame, |
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, |
Gathering her brows like gathering
storm, |
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
|
This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shanter, |
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter : |
(Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses. |
For honest men and bonie lasses.)
|
O Tam, had’st thou but been sae wise, |
As taen thy ain wife Kate’s advice ! |
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, |
A blethering, blustering, drunken
blellum ; |
That frae November till October, |
Ae market-day thou was nae sober ; |
That ilka melder wi’ the miller, |
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; |
That ev’ry naig was ca’d a shoe on, |
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; |
That at the Lord’s house, even on
Sunday, |
Thou drank wi’ Kirkton Jean till
Monday. |
She prophesied, that, late or soon, |
Thou would be found deep drown’d in
Doon, |
Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the mirk |
By Alloway’s auld, haunted kirk.
|
Ah ! gentle dames, it gars me greet, |
To think how monie counsels sweet, |
How monie lengthen’d, sage advices |
The husband frae the wife despises !
|
But to our tale :― Ae
market-night, |
Tam had got planted unco right, |
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, |
Wi’ reaming swats, that drank divinely
; |
And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, |
His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie : |
Tam lo’ed him like a very brither ; |
They had been fou for weeks thegither. |
The night drave on wi’ sangs and
clatter ; |
And ay the ale was growing better : |
The landlady and Tam grew gracious |
Wi’ secret favours, sweet and precious
: |
The Souter tauld his queerest stories ; |
The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus : |
The storm without might rair and
rustle, |
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.
|
Care, mad to see a man sae happy, |
E’en drown’d himself amang the nappy. |
As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’
treasure, |
The minutes wing’d their way wi’
pleasure : |
Kings may be blest but Tam was
glorious, |
O’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious !
|
But pleasures are like poppies spread : |
You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed
; |
Or like the snow falls in the river, |
A moment white―then
melts for ever ; |
Or like the Borealis, race, |
That flit ere you can point their place
; |
Or like the rainbow’s lovely form |
Evanishing amid the storm. |
Nae man can tether time or tide ; |
The hour approaches Tam maun ride : |
That hour, o’night’s black arch the
key-stane, |
That dreary hour Tam mounts his beast
in ; |
And sic a night he taks the road in, |
As ne’er poor sinner was abroad in.
|
The wind blew as ‘twad blawn its last ; |
The rattling showers rose on the blast
; |
The speedy gleams the darkness
swallow’d ; |
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder
bellow’d : |
That night, a child might understand, |
The Deil had business on his hand.
|
Weel mounted on his grey meare Meg, |
A better never lifted leg, |
Tam skelpit on thro’ dub and mire, |
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; |
Whiles holding fast his guid blue
bonnet, |
Whiles crooning o’er some auld Scots
sonnet, |
Whiles glow’ring round wi’ prudent
cares, |
Les bogles catch him unawares : |
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, |
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.
|
By this time he was cross the ford, |
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor’d ; |
And past the birks and meikle stane, |
Whare drunken Charlie brak’s neck-bane
; |
And thro’ the whins, and by the cairn, |
Whare hunters fand the murder’d bairn ; |
And near the thorn, aboon the well, |
Whare Mungo’s mither hang’d hersel. |
Before him Doon pours all his floods ; |
The doubling storm roars thro’ the
woods ; |
The lightnings flash from pole to pole
; |
Near and more near the thunders roll : |
When, glimmering thro’ the groaning
trees, |
Kirk-Alloway seem’d in a bleeze, |
Thro’ ilka bore the beams were
glancing, |
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
|
Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn ! |
What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! |
Wi’ tippenny, we fear nae evil ; |
Wi’ usquabae, we’ll face the Devil ! |
The swats sae ream’d in Tammie’s
noddle, |
Fair play, he car’d na deils a boddle, |
But Maggie stood, right sair
astonish’d, |
Till, by the heel and hand admonish’d, |
She ventur’d forward on the light ; |
And, wow ! Tam saw an unco sight !
|
Warlocks and witches in a dance : |
Nae cotillion, brent new frae France, |
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and
reels, |
Put life and mettle in their heels. |
A winnock-bunker in the east, |
There sat Auld Nick, in shape o’ beast
; |
A tousie tyke, black, grim, and large, |
To gie them music was his charge : |
He screw’d the pipes and gart 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 cantraip sleight, |
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’ bluid 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 of horrible and awefu’, |
Which even to name wad be unlawfu’. |
Three Lawyers’ tongues, turned inside
out, |
Wi’ lies seamed like a beggar’s clout ; |
Three Priests’ hearts, rotten, black as
muck, |
Lay stinking, vile, in every neuk.
|
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 linen
!― |
Thir breeks o’ mine, my only pair, |
That ance were plush, o’guid blue hair, |
I wad hae gi’en them off my hurdies |
For ae blink o’ the bonie burdies !
|
But wither’d beldams, auld and droll, |
Ripwoodie hags wad spean a foal, |
Louping and flinging on a crummock, |
I wonder did na turn thy stomach !
|
But Tam kend what was what fu’ brawlie
: |
There was ae winsome wench and wawlie, |
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, |
And kept the country-side in fear.) |
Her cutty sark, o’ Paisley harn, |
That while a lassie she has worn, |
In longitude tho’ sorely scanty, |
It was her best, and she was vuantie. .
. . |
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 as far beyond her power : |
To sing how Nannie lap and flang |
(A souple jad she was and strang); |
And how Tam stood like ane bewitch’d, |
And thought his very een 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 skriech and hollo.
|
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 ! |
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 grey 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, 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 meare.
|
Robert Burns
| Classic Poems |
|
[ A Red, Red Rose ] [ To a Mountain Daisy ] [ Address to a Haggis ] [ Address to Edinburgh ] [ Auld Lang Syne ] [ Is there for Honest Poverty ] [ Address to the Unco Guid ] [ The Cotter's Saturday Night ] [ To a Louse ] [ My Heart's in the Highlands ] [ Holy Willie's Prayer ] [ Tam O'Shanter ] [ To a Mouse ] |