TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

THOU ling'ring star, with less'ning 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?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not 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, thick'ning green;

The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined am'rous round the raptured scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed,
The birds sang love on ev'ry spray,—
Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care;
Time but th' impression deeper makes,
As streams their channel deeper wear.

My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

TAM O'SHANTER.

WHEN chapman billies leave the street, [peddler fellows

And drouthy neibors neibors 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 thinkna on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where 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, whom ne'er a town surpasses
For honest men and bonie lasses). . .
But to our tale: Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,

[road

[ale

[gaps in fences

Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony:

[frothing ale [shoemaker

Tam lo'ed him like a very brither;

They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter;
And ay the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favors, secret, sweet, and precious:
The souter tauld his queerest stories;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whustle.
Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drowned himself amang the nappy!
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,

A moment white-then melts for ever;
Or like the borealis race,

That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.

Nae man can tether time or tide;—

The hour approaches Tam maun ride;

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in,

As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;

The rattling show'rs rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd;
That night, a child might understand,
The Deil had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,

Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;

Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet;
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares,

Lest bogles catch him unawares;

Kirk Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.
By this time he was cross the ford,
Where in the snaw the chapman smoored;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Where drunken Charlie brak 'is neck-bane;
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,

Where the hunters fand the murdered bairn/
And near the thorn, aboon the well,

Whare Mungo's mither hanged hersel.
Before him Doon pours all his floods;

The doubling storm roars thro' the woods;
The lightnings flash from pole to pole;
Near and more near the thunders roll:

[hurried

[smothered

Chirches, big

When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk Alloway seemed in a bleeze;
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing;
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!

What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;

Wi' usquebae, we'll face the Devil!

The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,

Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle.
But Maggie stood right sair astonished,
Till, by the heel and hand admonished,
She ventured forward on the light;
And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillion brent new frae France,

[every hole

[twopenny ale [whiskey

[brand

But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,

Put life and mettle in their heels.

At winnock-bunker in the east,

[window-seat

There sat old Nick, in shape o' beast,

[shaggy dog

A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,

To gie them music was his charge:

He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, [made, scream Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.—

Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns;

As Tammie glowr'd, amazed and curious,

The mirth and fun grew fast and furious:

The piper loud and louder blew ;

The dancers quick and quicker flew;

They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit,

But Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie,

There was ae winsome wench and walie,

[choice

That night enlisted in the core,

[corps

[barley

[short, coarse linen

(Lang after kend on Carrick shore;
For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perished mony a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear),
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,
That, while a lassie, she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.—
Ah! little kend thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches,)
Wad ever grace a dance of witches!

But here my muse her wing maun cour;
Sic flights are far beyond her power;

To sing how Nannie lap and flang

(A souple jade she was, and strang),

[bought

And how Tam stood, like ane bewitched,

And thought his very een enriched;

Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,

And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main;

Till first ae caper, syne anither,

[then

Tam tint his reason a' thegither,

[lost

And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"

And in an instant all was dark;

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,

When out the hellish legion sallied.

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;

[bustle

[hive