Then gently scan your brother man, One point must still be greatly dark, Who made the heart, 'tis He alone He knows each chord-its various tone, We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, TAM SAMSON'S' ELEGY. An honest man's the noblest work of God. РОРЕ. HAS auld K********* seen the Deil? To preach an' read? 'Na, waur than a'!' cries ilka chiel, 'Tam Samson's dead!' K********* lang may grunt an' grane, In mourning weed; To death, slie's dearly paid the kane, Tam Samson's dead! The brethren of the mystic level 1 When this worthy old sportsman went out last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, the last of his fields; and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author composed his Elegy and Epitaph. 2 A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide the Ordination, stanza ii. 3 Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at that time ailing. For him see also the Ordination, stanza ix. While by their nose the tears will revel, Death's gien the lodge an unco devel: Tam Samson's dead! When winter muffles up his cloak, Wi' gleesome speed, Wha will they station at the cock, Tam Samson's dead? He was the king o' a' the core In time of need; But now he lags on death's hog-score, Tam Samson's dead! Now safe the stately sawmont sail, And geds for greed, Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail Tam Samson dead! Rejoice ye birring paitricks a'; Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw; Withouten dread; Your mortal fae is now awa', Tam Samson's dead! That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd Frae couples freed; But, och! he gaed and ne'er return'd! Tam Samson's dead! In vain auld age his body batters; Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin, clatters, Tam Samson's dead! Owre many a weary hag he limpit, Wi' deadly feide; Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, Tam Samson's dead! When at his heart he felt the dagger, Wi' weel-aim'd heed; <L-d, five!' he cry'd, an' owre did stagger; Tam Samson's dead! Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither; Marks out his head, Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, 'Tam Samson's dead!' There low he lies, in lasting rest; To hatch an' breed; Alas! nae mair he'll them molest! Tam Samson's dead! When August winds the heather wave, O' pouther an' lead, Till echo answer frae her cave, Tam Samson's dead! Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be! Yet what remead? Ae social, honest man want we : Tam Samson's dead! |