O Thou! who poured the patriotic tide That streamed thro' Wallace's undaunted heart, Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God peculiarly thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never Scotia's realm desert, But still the patriot, and the patriotbard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard! TAM O' SHANTER A TALE Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this buke. - GAWIN DOUGLAS WHEN chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebours neebours meet, As market-days are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak the gate; While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' gettin fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare 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, wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonie lasses.) O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee well thou was a skellum, A bletherin, blusterin, drunken blellum; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was nae sober; That ilka melder wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesied, that, late or soon, Thou would be found deep drowned in Or catched wi' warlocks in the mirk, Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how monie counsels sweet, How monie lengthened sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises ! But to our tale: Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right, Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie: 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' secret favours, 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 whistle. And sic a night he taks the road in, As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 't wad blawn its last; The rattling showers rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed; Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed: That night, a child might understand, Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, sonnet, Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, By this time he was cross the ford, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoored; And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Whare 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; 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! The swats sae reamed in Tammie's noddle, Warlocks and witches in a dance; Put life and mettle in their heels: There sat Auld Nick in shape o' beast; Coffins stood around like open presses, A murderer's banes in gibbet airns; As Tammie glowered, amazed and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans, A' plump and strapping in their teens! Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, * But Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie; There was ae winsome wench and wawlie, Lang after kend on Carrick shore But here my Muse her wing maun cour, Till first ae caper, syne anither, As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When, pop! she starts before their nose; Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! But ere the key-stane she could make, How blythely wad I bide the stoure, The fient a tail she had to shake! Ae spring brought aff her master hale, Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, SCOTS WHA HAE SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie! Now's the day, and now's the hour; See approach proud Edward's power Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha for Scotland's king and law Let him follow me! By oppression's woes and pains! MARY MORISON O MARY, at thy window be, It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor: A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison. There's not a bonie flower that springs TAM GLEN My heart is a-breaking, dear tittie, But what will I do wi' Tam Glen? I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow, There's Lowrie, the laird o' Dumeller, He brags and he blaws o' his siller, But when will he dance like Tam Glen? My minnie does constantly deave me, But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen? My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten: But, if it's ordained I maun take him, O wha will I get but Tam Glen? Yestreen at the valentines' dealing, My heart to my mou gied a sten: For thrice I drew ane without failing, And thrice it was written, "Tam Glen"! The last Halloween I was waukin My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken: His likeness cam up the house staukin, And the very gray breeks o' Tam Glen! Come counsel, dear tittie, don't tarry; I'll gie ye my bonie black hen, Gif ye will advise me to marry The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS FAREWELL to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of valour, the country of worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, |