As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke,
     When plundering herds assail their byke;
     As open pussie’s mortal foes,
     When, pop! she starts before their nose;
     As eager runs the market-crowd,
     When “Catch the thief!” resounds aloud;
     So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
     Wi’ mony an eldritch skreich and hollow.

     Ah, Tam!  Ah, Tam! thou’ll get thy fairin! 
     In hell, they’ll roast thee like a herrin! 
     In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! 
     Kate soon will be a woefu’ woman! 
     Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg,
     And win the key-stone o’ the brig;^1
     There, at them thou thy tail may toss,
     A running stream they dare na cross. 
     But ere the keystane she could make,
     The fient a tail she had to shake! 
     For Nannie, far before the rest,
     Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
     And flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle;
     But little wist she Maggie’s mettle! 
     Ae spring brought off her master hale,
     But left behind her ain grey tail: 
     The carlin claught her by the rump,
     And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

     Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read,
     Ilk man and mother’s son, take heed: 
     Whene’er to Drink you are inclin’d,
     Or Cutty-sarks rin in your mind,
     Think ye may buy the joys o’er dear;
     Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare.

On The Birth Of A Posthumous Child

     Born in peculiar circumstances of family distress.

     Sweet flow’ret, pledge o’ meikle love,
     And ward o’ mony a prayer,
     What heart o’ stane wad thou na move,
     Sae helpless, sweet, and fair?

     November hirples o’er the lea,
     Chil, on thy lovely form: 
     And gane, alas! the shelt’ring tree,
     Should shield thee frae the storm.

[Footnote 1:  It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any further than the middle of the next running stream.  It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back.—­R.B.]

     May He who gives the rain to pour,
     And wings the blast to blaw,
     Protect thee frae the driving show’r,
     The bitter frost and snaw.

     May He, the friend o’ Woe and Want,
     Who heals life’s various stounds,
     Protect and guard the mother plant,
     And heal her cruel wounds.

     But late she flourish’d, rooted fast,
     Fair in the summer morn,
     Now feebly bends she in the blast,
     Unshelter’d and forlorn.

     Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem,
     Unscath’d by ruffian hand! 
     And from thee many a parent stem
     Arise to deck our land!