It is the moon, I ken her horn,
  That’s blinkin in the lift sae hie;
  She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
  But, by my sooth, she’ll wait a wee!

  Wha first shall rise to gang awa,
  A cuckold, coward loun is he! 
  Wha first beside his chair shall fa’,
  He is the King amang us three!

  TO MARY IN HEAVEN

  Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,
  That lov’st to greet the early morn,
  Again thou usher’st in the day
  My Mary from my soul was torn,
  O Mary! dear departed shade! 
  Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
  See’st thou thy lover lowly laid? 
  Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?

  That sacred hour can I forget,
  Can I forget the hallowed grove,
  Where by the winding Ayr we met
  To live one day of parting love? 
  Eternity cannot efface
  Those records dear of transports past,
  Thy image at our last embrace—­
  Ah! little thought we ’twas our last!

  Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,
  O’erhung with wild woods, thickening green;
  The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar
  Twined amorous round the raptured scene: 
  The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed,
  The birds sang love on every spray,
  Till too, too soon the glowing west
  Proclaimed the speed of winged day.

  Still o’er these scenes my memory wakes,
  And fondly broods with miser care! 
  Time but th’ impression stronger makes,
  As streams their channels deeper wear. 
  My Mary, dear departed shade! 
  Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
  See’st thou thy lover lowly laid? 
  Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast?

  TAM O’ SHANTER:  A TALE

  Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this buke. 
  —­GAWIN DOUGLAS.

  When chapman billies leave the street,
  And drouthy neebors neebors meet,
  As market-days are wearing late,
  An’ folk begin to tak the gate,
  While we sit bousing at the nappy,
  An’ getting fou and unco happy,
  We think na on the lang Scots miles,
  The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
  That lie between us and our hame,
  Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
  Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
  Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

  This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shanter,
  As he frae Ayr ae night did canter
  (Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses
  For honest men and bonie lasses).

  O Tam, had’st thou but been sae wise
  As taen thy ain wife Kate’s advice! 
  She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
  A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum,
  That frae November till October
  Ae market-day thou was nae sober;
  That ilka melder wi’ the miller
  Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
  That ev’ry naig was ca’d a shoe on
  The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
  That at the Lord’s house, even on Sunday,
  Thou drank wi’ Kirkton Jean till Monday. 
  She prophesied that, late or soon,
  Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon,
  Or catched wi’ warlocks in the mirk
  By Alloway’s auld, haunted kirk.