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;^3
     Tell ev’ry social honest billie
     To cease his grievin’;
     For, yet unskaithed by Death’s gleg gullie. 
     Tam Samson’s leevin’!

Epistle To Major Logan

     Hail, thairm-inspirin’, rattlin’ Willie! 
     Tho’ fortune’s road be rough an’ hilly
     To every fiddling, rhyming billie,
     We never heed,
     But take it like the unback’d filly,
     Proud o’ her speed.

     [Footnote 3:  Kilmarnock.—­R.  B.]

     When, idly goavin’, whiles we saunter,
     Yirr! fancy barks, awa we canter,
     Up hill, down brae, till some mischanter,
     Some black bog-hole,
     Arrests us; then the scathe an’ banter
     We’re forced to thole.

     Hale be your heart! hale be your fiddle! 
     Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
     To cheer you through the weary widdle
     O’ this wild warl’. 
     Until you on a crummock driddle,
     A grey hair’d carl.

     Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,
     Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune,
     And screw your temper-pins aboon
     A fifth or mair
     The melancholious, lazy croon
     O’ cankrie care.

     May still your life from day to day,
     Nae “lente largo” in the play,
     But “allegretto forte” gay,
     Harmonious flow,
     A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey—­
     Encore!  Bravo!

     A blessing on the cheery gang
     Wha dearly like a jig or sang,
     An’ never think o’ right an’ wrang
     By square an’ rule,
     But, as the clegs o’ feeling stang,
     Are wise or fool.

     My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase
     The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,
     Wha count on poortith as disgrace;
     Their tuneless hearts,
     May fireside discords jar a base
     To a’ their parts.