The Beauties of Burn's Poems/Tam Samson's Elegy

by Robert Burns (1759-1796)

For other versions of this work, see Tam Samson's Elegy.

TAM SAMSON's^[1] ELEGY.

An honest man's the noblest work of God.—Pope.

 

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the diel?
Or great M'———^[2] thrawn his heel?
Or R———^[3] again grown weel,
To preach and read?
Na, waur than a', cries ilka chiel,
Tam Samson's dead!

K——— lang may grunt and grane,
And sigh, and sab, and greet her lane,
And clead her bairns, man, wife, and wean,
In mourning weed,
To death she's dearly paid the kane,
Tam Samson's dead.

The Brethren o' the mystic level,
May hing their heads in woeful bevel,
While by their nose the tears will revel,
Like ony bead;
Death's gien our lodge an unco devel.
Tam Samson's dead.

When Winter muffles up his cloak,
And binds the mire like to a rock,
When to the lochs 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, draw, or wick a bore,
Or up the ring like Jehu roar,
In time o' need;
But now he lags on death's hog-score,
Tam Samson's dead.

Now safe the stately Saumons sail;
And Trouts bedroop'd wi' crimson hail,
And Eels, weel kend for souple tail,
And Geds for greed,
Since dark, in Death's fish-creel, we wail
Tam Samson's dead.

Rejoice ye birring Paitricks a',
Ye cootie Muircock crously craw,
Ye Maukins cock your fuds fu' braw,
Withoutten dread,
Your mortal fae is now awa,
Tam Samson's dead.

That woefu' 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 the waters,
An acre braid:
Now ev'ry auld wife greetin clatters,
Tam Samson's dead

Owre mony a weary hag he limpit,
And 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 the heart he felt the dagger,
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger,
But yet he drew the mortal trigger
Wi' weel-aim'd heed;
"L—d, five!" he cried, and owre did stagger,
Tam Samson's dead!

Ilk hoary Hunter mourn'd a brither,
Ilk Sportsman-youth bemoan'd a father!
Yon auld grey-stane amang the heather,
Marks out his head,
Whar Burns has wrote, in rhymin 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 and breed;
Alas! nae mair he'll them molest,
Tam Samson's dead!

When August winds the heather wave,
And Sportsmen wander by yon grave,
Three vollies let his mem'ry crave,
O' pouther and lead,
Till echo answer frae her grave,
Tam Samson's dead!

Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be,
Is the wish o'mony mae than me;
He had twa fauts, or maybe three,
Yet what remead?
Ae social honest man want we,
Tam Samson's dead!

THE EPITAPH.

Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies,
Ye canting Zealots spare him;
If Honest Worth in Heaven rise,
Ye'll mend or ye win near him.

Per Contra.

Go, Fame, and canter like a filly,
Thro' a' the streets and neuks o Killie^[4],
Tell ev'ry social, honest billie
To cease his grievin,
For yet unskaith'd by Death's gleg gullie,
Tam Samson's livin.

 

Divider from 'The Beauties of Burn's Poems' a chapbook printed in Falkirk in 1819

 

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, p. 72.
3. Another Preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who were at that time ailing. For him, see also the Ordination, Stanza ix.
4. Killie is a phrase the country-folk sometimes use for the name of a town in the West.