[Footnote 1:  A certain preacher, a great favourite with the
     million.  Vide “The Ordination.” stanza ii.—­R.  B.]

     [Footnote 2:  Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few,
     who was at that time ailing.  For him see also “The Ordination,”
     stanza ix.—­R.B.]

     Kilmarnock lang may grunt an’ grane,
     An’ sigh, an’ sab, an’ greet her lane,
     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 he lags 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,
     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, clatters
     “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 proclaims wi’ tout o’ trumpet,
     “Tam Samson’s dead!”

     When at his heart he felt the dagger,
     He reel’d his wonted bottle-swagger,
     But yet he drew the mortal trigger,
     Wi’ weel-aimed heed;
     “Lord, five!” he cry’d, an’ owre did stagger—­
     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!”