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TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY

An honest man's the noblest work of God.
POPE.

I

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!’

II

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane,
An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane,
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An' cleed her bairns—man, wife an' wean—
In mourning weed;
To Death she's dearly pay'd the kain:
Tam Samson's dead!

III

The Brethren o' the mystic level
May hing their head in woefu' bevel,
While by their nose the tears will revel,
Like onie bead;
Death's gien the Lodge an unco devel:
Tam Samson's dead!

IV

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!

V

He was the king of 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!
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VI

Now safe the stately sawmont sail,
And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail,
And eels, weel-kend for souple tail,
And geds for greed,
Since, dark in Death's fish-creel, we wail
Tam Samson dead!

VII

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a';
Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw;
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw
Withouten dread;
Your mortal fae is now awa:
Tam Samson's dead!

VIII

That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd,
Saw him in shootin 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.

IX

In vain auld-age his body batters,
In vain the gout his ancles fetters,
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In vain the burns cam down like waters,
An acre braid!
Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin, clatters:
‘Tam Samson's dead!’

X

Owre monie a weary hag he limpit,
An' ay the tither shot he thumpit,
Till coward Death behint him jumpit,
Wi' deadly feide;
Now he proclaims wi' tout o' trumpet:
‘Tam Samson's dead!“

XI

When at his heart he felt the dagger,
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger,
But yet he drew the mortal trigger
Wi' weel-aim'd heed;
‘Lord, five!’ he cry'd, an' owre did stagger—
Tam Samson's dead!

XII

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!’
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XIII

There low he lies in lasting rest;
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast
Some spitefu' moorfowl bigs her nest,
To hatch an' breed:
Alas! nae mair he'll them molest:
Tam Samson's dead!

XIV

When August winds the heather wave,
And sportsmen wander by yon grave,
Three volleys let his memory crave
O' pouther an' lead,
Till Echo answers frae her cave:
‘Tam Samson's dead!’

XV

‘Heav'n rest his saul whare'er he be!’
Is th'wish o' monie 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.
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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 unskaith'd by Death's gleg gullie,
Tam Samson's leevin!
previous section The Poetry of Robert Burns
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