tam samson's elegy

an honest man's the noblest work of god—pope.

when this worthy old sportman went out,st muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in ossian's phrase, “thest of his fields,” and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. on this hint the author posed his elegy and epitaph.—r.b., 1787.

has auld kilmarnock seen the deil?

or great mackiy thrawn his heel?

or robertson again grown weel,

to preach an' read?

“na' waur than a'!” cries ilka chiel,

“tam samson's dead!”

kilmarnockng may grunt an' grane,

an' sigh, an' sab, an' greet herne,

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 hegs 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,