Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Nae harum-scarum chiel' was he
To birl awa' his dear-won fee
On yill or sweeties or sic trash,
To ha'e a name and mak' a clash
For a fine free-and-easy mind:
—Tam was to better things inclin'd.

Tam kent a bank—nae wild-thyme brae
Where dads o' sunlicht glint an' gae—
But a bare shop where siller's lent
To multiplie at three per cent.
'Twas here he pat whate'er he earned;
And then he turned his lug and learned,
Where'er he gaed, the saws o' sense
That taught him hoo to guide his pence.

He saw at markets and at fairs
Hoo fowk laid oot an' sauld their wares;
He studied weel the wheedlin' airt
That garr'd the sumph wi's siller pairt,
Yet think himself a clever chiel'
To skin the chapman aff sae weel.
An' ae wise maxim first owre a'
He gathered in fra' what he saw—
The adage, never faithless found,
That gars the penny herd the pound.

Tam, like the brethren o' his station,
Had unco little education;
But i' the lang fore-winter-nicht
He edged his kist in by the licht,
An' while his neebor loons were snorin',
Or owre some new brent ballant roarin',
Or, maybe, if the nicht was fine,
Awa' to tryst some gigglin' qwine,
He took his bannet aff his pow,
An' down he sat beside the lowe,
An' swat an' gied his brains a rackin',
Addin', dividin', and subtrackin':
Straucht through the Gray his way he urged,

Nae coont he missed, nae answer forged,
Simple an' compound, big an' wee,
To Practice an' the Rules o' Three:
Some say he mastered Tare-an'-Tret,
Tho' sair it garr'd him fume an' fret.

At ither times he gat his bottle—
Whusky! it never wat his throttle!
'Twas Peerie's ink, a better liquor;
He seized his pen, an' grupp'd it sicker,
Row'd up his sleeve-bands no' to blot,
An', restin' on his elbuck, wrote.
An' if the letters werena braw,
An' sometimes lowse an' sair athraw,
His thochts were aye wi' skill conneckit,
An' aye wi' taste his words seleckit!

Noo, lad, I'll lay a croon-piece wager
Ye think Tam ettled at a gauger.
Oh, man! but ye're a grovellin' wicht!
Tam's fancy had a higher flicht;
In fact, he didna clearly see
Where it wad licht: but bide awee;
An', i' the mids' o' the meantime, ken ye

Tam thocht the best perch to ascen' fra'
A pedlar's pack—a rowin' stane
That gaithers moss, the only ane!

His measures were matured completely,
An' a' his plans laid sae discreetly,
That when, ae term-day i' the Fa'
Tam quat the pleugh for guid an' a',
He had nae mair ado but tak'
A muckle bundle on his back,
Weel stored wi' ribban's, knives, an' rings,
Wi' claith, an' capes, an' orra things—
Tak' oot the license, twa pound odd,
Cut a stoot rung, an' to the road!

Noo, in his new-adopted life,
Wi' change o' scene an' fowk sae rife,
Sae weel contrived for interviews
An' wrestlin's wi' the rural muse,
Tam micht hae faither'd mony a sang
To cheer him as he jogg'd alang.

But Tammy's saul was sae intent,
Sae eident aye on business bent,

A corner o't he couldna spare
For lichter matter than his ware:
The muse was ither than a true ane,
An' rhymin' raither waur than pleughin'.

Yet sometimes, as he stoopt to drink
By some clear upland burnie's brink,
The gowan, wi' its sil'er rim,
Or primrose wad look up at him,
An' by their sweet suggestive hues
Wad set Tam's fancy on the muse,
An' glitter thro' his day-dream doverin's
Like sil'er sixpences an' sovereigns!

Lang, lang, an' mony a mile he trudged,
An' some, ye needna doot, he grudged,—
For Fortune's but a fickle jaud,
An' e'en her best is mix'd wi' bad;
But, guid or bad, or baith thegither,
Tam took his customers wi' his weather.
In winter's mirk, an' simmer's sun,
Familiar wi' the varyin' wun',
Fra' hoose to hoose he made his ca's,
Displayed his pack, an' gaed his wa's;

Contented, if when gloamin' gray
Shut in anither gowden day,
His hogger had a mellower chime
To shaw he had “improved” the time.

When mony a day had come an' gane,
An' mony a pack an' pair o' shoon,
An' mony a groat—na! that's a bam!
The bawbees biket when they cam'—
At last, in a sma' country toun,
Tam laid his hazel ellwand doun,
An', strong wi' speculative hope,
Open'd a haberdasher's shop!

I tellna here hoo sair he strove,
An' tackled to his wark, an' throve:
Tam aye had guidwill to his wark—
Bear witness mony a sweaty sark!—
Baith wi' the flail an' at the pleugh,
An' warstlin' wi' his pack, an' noo
Ahint the coonter, rack'd in mind
At aince to cleed an' fleece mankind.

Aneuch that Fortune's wayward ba',
That rows obedient to nae law,

Play'd gently in to Tammy's feet:
—Tam cuist the coat an' gae't a heat;
Doun the lang years he sent it spinnin',
An' followed hard an' het wi' rinnin'!

When thrice the sun had wheel'd his roun',
A farmer enter'd this same toun,
As blithe a carle as ever stappit—
Tho' simmer, in a grey plaid happit—
Twal miles, a weary foot, frae hame,
An' Willie Gowanlock his name.

Up thro' the middle o' the street
He paced wi' patriarchal feet,
Took up his station at the Cross,
Syne glowered aboot him at a loss.
His faithfu' collie, dune wi' daffin',
Stood heedless o' the toon-tykes' yaffin',
An' lookit in his maister's face
As if his inmost wish to trace.
At last, a muckle painted sign,
Wi' gowden letters glitterin' fine,
Tane Willie's wuld an' wanderin' e'e:
He stood an' spelt, an' thocht awee.

“What's this?” quo' Will; “my e'esicht's failin',
But isna that Castmetalpailin'?
An'—Lord, forgie's for a' oor ills dune!—
What's that below't but Tammas Wilson?
The verra man, I'll tak' my aith;
But, Lord, he deals in daft-like graith!”

Three staps brocht Willie to the place,
An' there was Tammy's weel-kent face.
Tammy, wi' smile an' smirk sae ready,
Was shawin' gum-flooers to a leddy,
An' twa wee spunkie prentice loons
Were measurin' claith an' brushin' goons.

“Tammas! your hand; I'm glad to see ye;
Haith, lad, but things are prosperin' wi' ye!
Ye'll mind o' me, an' Ruth, my dochter?
It's juist gey far, or I'd hae brocht her.
Hoot, fye! Ye mind she used to squeeze
Your pouches fu' o' cakes an' cheese
What time ye ran the packman's tether;
I used to think ye fain o' ither.”

Tam raised his e'eglass, glowered, an' spak'—

“I dout, my man, there's some mistak';
I dinna ken ye! George, the door!
John, dinna mak' sae muckle stour!—
Weel, madam, what's your further orders?
See, here's some braw new soo-back borders,
Their like for cheapness near nor far is,
They cam' yestreen direct from Paris—
The newest shape, the best design,
Baith stuff an' trimmin' superfine!”

Weel was it said, the haly saw,
Pride gangs afore an awfu' fa'!
To shaw a customer gudewill
Tam wrote his name across a bill;
The scoundrel ran, an' Tammy brak',
Paid aucht i' pound, an' took a pack!

An' noo, owre hill an' muir again,
Thro' lanely shaw an' rocky glen,
Owre bog an' slap an' dyke an' stile
He travell'd mony an anxious mile:
His weel-kent face aince mair was seen
At fair an' dance on village green.
Nae birth was near but Tammy kent it,

An' wakes an' waddin's he frequentit;
Black-wavin' crapes an' ghostly weepers,
Tap-knots an' snoods an' dancin' cheepers,
Razors an' hones for gay young shavers,
An' Sabbath scarfs an' marriage favours—
In short, whatever ane could lack
Bude first to come fra' Tammy's pack:
Sae quick his wares flew roond aboot him,
Hoo had the kintra dune withoot him?

Ae snawy nicht in winter time—
Sae dark ye couldna see a styme—
Tammy, returnin' fra' a toor,
Ventured a short-cut owre a moor.
Aroond him howled the eerie blast,
The snaw was driftin' fierce an' fast;
Tam pu'd the bannet owre his lug,
An' gied his belt anither tug,
An', ruminatin' owre his lot,
Calmly pursued his ain jog-trot;
Till, swith! a whin-stump catch'd his cuit,
An' owre he fell like ony peat!
The witch-wind screamed wi' eldritch laughter,
An' doun the snaw-ghaists danced the dafter!

Up gat puir Tammy, sair benighted;
The heavy fa' had dung him doited:
Up Tammy gat—puir luckless fallow!
His scattered senses widna rally.
A' roond he glower'd, but glower'd in vain—
The mirk was solid as a stane.
He siched as if his heart wad brak',
Then graipit till he fand his pack,
Then fand his legs—nae banes were broken—
An' spak' (the words aloud were spoken):—
“There was an auld sang nearhan' endit;
But, lad, we're livin' an' we'll mend it—
Drive on, ye jaud, an' be mair tenty!”

But whatna road, where roads were plenty?
He stude, the centre o' the compass,
An' hearkened to the windy rumpus
A' roond the moor's mysterious border,
An' guessed an' glowered, but naething furder
The gate he wished—hoo could he find it?
The gate he cam'—he didna mind it!

The sweat stude cauld on Tammy's broo—
“Lord save's or here's the end o't noo

Twa minutes syne I kent it brawly,
An' noo—Lord pity a poor fallow!”

Lauch an: devoutly Tammy prayed,
An' shortly cam' the timely aid.
Twal random staps he hadna gane,
An' just twal resolutions tane,
When, as he turned a distant knowe,
Laich on his left he spied a lowe.

Straight to the licht his path he steered,
Its lively ee the darkness cheered;
He lost it in a treeless glen,
But up the bank he saw't again
Streamin' far oot into the nicht—
A social, soul-enlivenin' licht;
At ilka stap a Scots ell nearer,
Broader at ilka stap an' clearer,
Till, owre a cheese-stane nearhan' stumblin',
Tammy was at a door-sneck fumblin'.

The door flew open wi' a bang!
The lassie stoppit in her sang,
The collie started wi' a fluity,

An' barkit like a very fury:
The auld man at the fireside pechan,
An' stitchin' at an auld tow brechan,
Threw up his hands aboon his pow,
An' sat an' naething said but “Vow!”

Tammy appeared—a ghaistly sicht!
He glowered to left, he glowered to richt;
Familiar was the scene throughout,
But yet he couldna mak' it oot,
Till through his saul there flashed the truth—
“It's Willie Gowanlock an' Ruth,
An' this is Heath'ryleys, an' there—
That's Ringwood birsin' up his hair.”

Auld Willie like a statue sat,
An' glower'd, but said ne this nor that.
“Willie,” quo' Tam, “ye ken me fine—
O, Willie, man, for auld langsyne!
I tried the muir, but gaed clean wild—
An' hoo it blaws!—just hearken till'd!”

Oot spak' the lass—“It's Tammas, faither;
Bid him inowre—it's awfu' weather.”

He raised the brechan to his e'e—
“I ken nae Tammas—wha are ye?
I doot, my man, there's some mistak';
I dinna ken ye—shaw yer back!”

The lassie ran an' barred the door:
“A bonnie thing to say, I'm sure!
Wasna the lamp expressly lichtit
To cheer the traveller dark-benichted,
An' on the window bunker set
To guide puir wanderers to our yett?”

Ruth spak' wi' kindlin' e'e and cheek,
An' trimmed wi' care the rashy wick;
Then to the floor returnin' back,
She eased puir Tammy o' his pack;
His coat wi' her ain hand she shook,
An' led him to the ingle nook.

Auld Willie started to his fit—
“Tammas, the play's played oot—we're quit!
See, there's my loof; it's frankly gi'en;
Ye're welcome, as ye've ever been.
Ruth, bring a riddlefu' o' peats.

Tammas, draw in an' heat your cuits.
The peat-reek, lassie?—that's weel-mindit—
Ahint John Fla'el ye'll aiblins find it.”

Nae house was spent a happier nicht in;
The hours flew owre their heads like lichtnin';
The auld guidman was fu' o' jokin',
An' Ruth, though bendin' owre a stockin,'
In kirtle jimp an' shapely boddice
To Tammy's e'en showed like a goddess.

Ye lee, ye rhymin' bardies a'
Wha say when leaves begin to fa',
An' norlan' win's blaw cauld an' dry,
An' swallows gather i' the sky,
The naked laddie greetin' rins
Soothward awa', where sunny win's,
Wi' lang, lang saft an' silken hair,
An' blue, blue e'en that ken nae care,
Wait on the purple hills to meet
An' welcome his far-travell'd feet.

Good faith! Ye've something yet to learn:
He's no' a feckless lassie-bairn!

The lang black winter thro' he tarries,
The hardy wean! an' shoots his arrows
Wi' quicker han', an' keener aim—
The loonie's nearer to his game:
He's left the shaw, the glen, the ley;
He's come wi' Robin a' the wey
To barns an' stackyards, doors an' windows;
An' weel he kens it's no' the Indies
That ane may scaithless want the breek,
An' sae he seeks the chimla-cheek;
An' there he sits an' trims his bow,
Lauchs till himsel', an' nods his pow,
An' chuckles like a wee red etyn,
“Ho! Ho! the famous winter shootin'!”

Tammy he shot, an' shot again,—
His heart was prinklin' wi' the pain!

Upon the wa', aboon the press,
There hung a fairy keekin'-gless;
Twa peacock feathers, droopin' lang,
Fra' the twa tapmost corners sprang,
An' at the foot, in kintra fashion,
Hung a wee red three-cornered cushion:

Not redder was that cushion-cover
Than was the heart of our true lover,
Nor mair preen-holed than Tammy's heart
By Cupid's fleet an' frequent dart!

Strange are the vagaries o' drink;
But stranger yet than ane can think
The varied changes love can work:
It drave Tam regular to the kirk,
It drave him to the Book o' Truth,
It drave him to the Tale o' Ruth.

It nearhan' drave him to the Muse,
But he'd the firmness to refuse
To listen to her bursts o' sang
That floated on the air alang,
An' garr'd his nerves, against his will,
Wi' a lang unkent sweetness thrill—
For, sprung o' Covenantin' blude,
He dooted if she cam' o' gude!

But, crush its utterance as he micht,
The feeling struggled to the licht—
A holy poetry that flings
Its arms roond a' created things.

As for a taste,—when Spring cam' on,
An' gowans thro' the black yird shone,
An' sweet primroses starr'd the mould
(They were a fairer sicht than gold),
The love, deep-planted in his breast,
Bloomed in a bookay on his vest.

Whate'er o' beauty Tammy saw
Cheerin' the gloom o' glen or shaw,
It gat the witcherie o' its grace,
In Tammy's fancy, fra' a face
Where Beauty's sel', embracin' Truth,
Was shinin' in the eyes o' Ruth.

Sair a' that Winter did he toil;
An' when the gowk brocht in April—
For ne'er a lassie yet consentit
To a May marriage but repentit—
He ceased the pedlar's wanderin' life,
An' he an' Ruth were man an' wife.

Ten years o' sober married bliss,
Ten years o' weel-deserv'd success,
And in the canty burrowstoun,

Where cautiously he settled doun,
Wha was sae mensefu' or sae douce,
Had roucher board or brawer hoose?
Whase wife was less to gossip gi'en?
Whase bairns wi' redder cheeks were seen?
Whase servant lass was better guidit?
Wha ampler for the puir providit?
Whase name was named wi' mair respect?
What Bailie spak' to mair effect?
Wha bore the Sacramental cup
Wi' cleaner heart or holier grup
Than Tammas Wilson? Wha wad dreamt o't?—
A pleughman aince, an' not ashamed o't!