Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supply'd wi' store o' water,
The heapet happer's ebbing still,
And still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable core,
As counsel for poor mortals,
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door,
For glaikit Folly's portals;.

I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,
Would here propone defences,

Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,
Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi' their's compar'd,
And shudder at the niffer,

But cast a moment's fair regard,
What maks the mighty differ;
Discount what scant occasion gave
That purity ye pride in,

And (what's aft mair than a' the lave)
Your better art o' hiding.

Think, when your castigated pulse
Gies now and then a wallop,
What raging must his veins convulse,

That still eternal gallop:

Wi' wind and tide fair i'

your

tail,

Right on ye scud your sea-way;

But in the teeth o' baith to sail,

It maks an unco lee-way.

See social life and glee sit down,
All joyous and unthinking,

Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown
Debauchery and drinking:

O, would they stay to calculate
Th' eternal consequences;
Or your more dreaded hell to state,
Damnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
Ty'd up in godly laces,
Before ye gie poor frailty names,
Suppose a change o' cases;
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug,
A treacherous inclination-
But, let me whisper i' your lug,
Ye're aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your

brother

Still gentler sister woman;

man,

Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang,
To step aside is human:

One point must still be greatly dark,
The moving why they do it:
And just as lamely can ye mark,
How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone
Decidedly can try us,

He knows each chord-its various tone,
Each spring-its various bias:

Then at the balance let's be mute,

We never can adjust it;

What's done we partly may compute,
But know not what's resisted.

TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY1.

An honest man's the noblest work of God.

HAS auld K********* seen the Deil?
Or
• *******2 thrawn his heel?
great M
Or R ******* 3 again grown weel,
To preach an' read?

'Na, waur than a'!' cries ilka chiel,

POPE.

Tam Samson's dead!'

K ********* 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 paid the kane,

Tam Samson's dead!

The brethren of 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 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.

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!

He was the king o' a' the core,
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore,
up the rink like Jehu roar

Or

In time of 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 dead!

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a';

Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw;
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw,

Withouten dread;

Your mortal fae is now awa,

Tam Samson's dead!

That waefu' morn be ever mourn'd, Saw him in shootin graith adorn'd, While pointers round impatient burn'd,

Frae couples freed;

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 came 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 feide;

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

Ꮕ Wi weel-aim'd heed; L-d, five' be 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!

There low he lies, in lasting rest;
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest,

To hatch an' breed;

Alas! nae mair he'll them molest!

Tam Samson's dead!