Or like the rainbow's lovely form

Evanishing amid the storm.

Nae man can tether time nor tide;

The hour approaches Tam maun ride:

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

A murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns;
A thief new-cutted frae a rape-
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks wi' bluid red-rusted;
Five scymitars wi' murder crusted;
A garter which a babe had strangled ;
A knife a father's throat had mangled-
Whom his ain son o' life bereft-
The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi' mair o' horrible and awefu',
Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
The piper loud and louder blew,
The dancers quick and quicker flew :

irons

rope mouth

stuck-handle

stared

thesegirls

greasy flannel

These breeches

hams

glimpse-birdies,

1

Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans, A' plump and strapping in their teens! Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linnen !— Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies For ae blink o' the bonie burdies! But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Louping and flinging on a crummock, I wonder did na turn thy stomach ! But Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie: quite well There was ae winsome wench and wawlie, comely-choice That night enlisted in the core,

dearies

Tough-wean Leaping-cudgel

corps

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:

When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd 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' usquabae, 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 astonish'd,

Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,

She ventur'd forward on the light;

every cranny

twopenny small ale

whisky frothed

not a farthing sorely

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 grac'd 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),
And how Tam stood like ane bewitch'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd;
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main;
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a' thegither,
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,

fidgeted-fond squirmed then

lost-altogether short-skirt, shift

fret

When plundering herds assail their byke; herd-boys-nest

1 'Seventeen hunder' in connection with linen indicates not the date but the degree of fineness.

treat

Reader, attend! whether thy soul
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole
In low pursuit ;

Know, prudent, cautious, self-controul
Is Wisdom's root.

Early work, published in the Kilmarnock Edition (1786).

It was a' for our Rightfu' King.

It was a' for our rightfu' King

We left fair Scotland's strand; It was a' for our rightfu' King,

We e'er saw Irish land,

My dear

We e'er saw Irish land.

Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou 'll get thy fairin! reward, 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-stane of the brig;
There, at them thou thy tail may toss,
A runnin stream they dare na cross!
But ere the key-stane 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 run in your mind,
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear :
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

No tail had she

Now a' is done that men can do,

intent

whole

clutched

Written in 1790 for Grose's Antiquities of Scotland; so at least Captain Grose claimed. Alloway is Burns's birthplace, and the ruin remains. Tam o' Shanter has been identified with one Douglas Graham, who was a farmer at Shanter in Carrick; Souter Johnie with John Davidson, a shoemaker in Kirkoswald. The two were boon companions in Ayr change-houses. Mrs Burns is alleged to have testified that the poem was written in a single day. Burns, in a letter to Mrs Dunlop of April 1791, described it half-jocularly as his 'standard performance in the poetical line,' and as showing 'a force of genius and a finishing polish that I despair of ever excelling.'

The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every spray, Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, And fondly broods with miser-care; Time but th' impression stronger makes,

As streams their channels deeper wear.

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?

Described by Burns in a letter of 8th November 1789 as 'made the other day,' and commonly believed to have been addressed to the 'dear, departed shade' of Mary Campbell on the anniversary of her death, which occurred in October 1786.

Ode, Sacred to the Memory of Mrs Oswald of
Auchencruive.

Dweller in yon dungeon dark,
Hangman of creation, mark!
Who in widow-weeds appears,
Laden with unhonoured years,
Noosing with care a bursting purse,
Baited with many a deadly curse?

Strophe.

View the wither'd beldam's face-
Can thy keen inspection trace

Aught of Humanity's sweet, melting grace?
Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows-

Pity's flood there never rose.

See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save,
Hands that took, but never gave.

Keeper of Mammon's iron chest,

Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest

She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!

Antistrophe.

Plunderer of Armies! lift thine eyes

(A while forbear, ye torturing fiends),

Seest thou whose step, unwilling, hither bends? No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies!

'Tis thy trusty, quondam Mate, Doom'd to share thy fiery fate

She, tardy, hell-ward plies.

Epode.

And are they of no more avail,
Ten thousand glittering pounds a-year?
In other worlds can Mammon fail,
Omnipotent as he is here?

O, bitter mockery of the pompous bier!

While down the wretched vital part is driv'n, The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heav'n. Written one night in January 1789, when the poet was driven out of a comfortable inn at Sanquhar into a night of 'bitter frost, howling hills and icy cataracts' by the funeral train of Mrs Oswald, daughter of a rich Jamaica merchant and widow of Richard Oswald, a Caithness man who made a fortune as a London merchant and as an army contractor ('plunderer of armies) in the Seven Years' War, but who earned a better character than Burns gave him by the services he rendered in arranging, on behalf of the Shelburne Ministry, the treaty which recognised the independence of the American Colonies.

She was nae get o' moorlan tips,
Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips;
For her forbears were brought in ships,
Frae yont the Tweed:

A bonier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips
Than Mailie's, dead.

Wae worth that man wha first did shape
That vile, wanchancie thing-a rape!
It maks guid fellows girn an' gape,
Wi' chokin dread;

An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape
For Mailie dead.

O, a' ye bards on bonie Doon!
An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune!
Come, join the melancholious croon
O' Robin's reed!

His heart will never get aboon-
His Mailie's dead!

wot

propriety

inner room

dell

ewe

to-knoll

roll

child-tups matted fleece

ancestors

t'other side fleece-shears

Woe befall dangerous

-rope

grin

bagpipes

get up again,

recover

last night

O Lord-yestreen-Thou kens-wi' Meg--knowest

Thy pardon I sincerely beg:

O, may 't ne'er be a livin plague

Wi' great an' sma',

Frae God's ain Priest the people's hearts He steals awa.

And when we chasten'd him therefore,

Thou kens how he bred sic a splore,
And set the warld in a roar

O' laughin at us :

Curse Thou his basket and his store,
Kail and potatoes!

Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r
Against that Presbyt❜ry of Ayr!
Thy strong right hand, Lord, mak it bare
Upo' their heads!

Lord, visit them, an' dinna spare,

For their misdeeds!

O Lord, my God! that glib-tongu'd Aiken, My vera heart and flesh are quakin

To think how we stood sweatin, shakin,

An' pish'd wi' dread,

While he, wi' hingin lip an' snakin,

Held up his head.

Lord, in Thy day o' vengeance try him! Lord, visit them wha did employ him! And pass not in Thy mercy by them, Nor hear their pray'r,

But for Thy people's sake destroy them, An' dinna spare!

But, Lord, remember me and mine

Wi' mercies temporal and divine,

That I for grace and gear may shine,
Excell'd by nane!

And a' the glory shall be Thine,

Amen! Amen!

row

do not

sneering

This satire on election and other Calvinistic doctrines was thus annotated by Burns: Holy Willie [William Fisher] was a rather oldish bachelor elder, in the parish of Mauchline, and much and justly famed for that polemical chattering which ends in tippling orthodoxy, and for that spiritualised bawdry which refines to liquorish devotion. In a sessional process with a gentleman of Mauchline-a Mr Gavin Hamilton-Holy Willie and his priest, Father Auld, after full hearing in the presbytery of Ayr, came off but second best; owing partly to the oratorical powers of Mr Robert Aiken, Mr Hamilton's counsel, but chiefly to Mr Hamilton's being one of the most irreproachable and truly respectable characters in the country. On losing his process, the Muse overheard him at his devotions, as follows.' The 'sessional process' occurred in 1785, Hamilton's offence being neglect of ordinances and violation of the Sabbath. Doubtless Burns believed too much evil of Fisher.

To a Mouse, on turning her up in her nest with the plough, November 1785.

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murdering pattle!

I'm truly sorry Man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion
An' fellow mortal!

sleek

hurrying haste loath plough-staff

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent among the lasses, O.

There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In every hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life o' man,

An' 'twere na for the lasses, O?

The war'ly race may riches chase,

An' riches still may fly them, O;
An' tho' at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

But gie me a cannie hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, O,

An' war'ly cares, an' war'ly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this;

Ye're nought but senseless asses, O:
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, 0:

Her prentice han' she try'd on man,

An' then she made the lasses, O.

If it were not worldly

quiet

topsy-turvy

quiet

Entered in the First Common-place Book under date August 1786.

Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet! Wi' spreckl'd breast,

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet

The purpling East.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting North

Upon thy early, humble birth;

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth
Thy tender form.

wet

speckled happy

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield ;.
But thou, beneath the random bield
O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
The snawie bosom sun-ward spread,

Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,

Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!

By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust,

Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple Bard,

On Life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent Lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er!

walls

-must

shelter

bare-stubble

Such fate to suffering Worth is giv'n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
By human pride or cunning driv'n

To mis'ry's brink :

Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,

He, ruin'd, sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine-no distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight Shall be thy doom!

M'Pherson's Farewell.

Chorus-Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,

Sae dauntingly gaed he;

He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round
Below the gallows-tree.