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.
1786
Type: Elegy
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 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!"
Owre mony a weary hag
he limpit,
An' aye the tither
shot he thumpit,
Till coward Death behind him jumpit,
Wi' deadly feid;
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-aimed 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' muirfowl bigs her nest
To hatch an' 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' mony 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 unskaithed
by
Death's gleg
gullie.
Tam Samson's leevin'!