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, tters

“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 proims wi' tout o' trumpet,

“tam samson's dead!”

when at his heart he felt the er,

he reel'd his wonted bottle-er,

but yet he drew the mortal er,

wi' weel-aimed heed;

“lord, five!” he cry'd, an' owre did er—

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, insting rest;

perhaps upon his mould'ring breast

some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest

to hatch an' breed:

s! 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!