Then from his Lordship I shall learn, Henceforth to meet with unconcern One rank as weel's another; Nae honest, worthy man need care To meet with noble youthful Daer, For he but meets a brother.
Tune--“Shawn-boy,” or “Over the water to Charlie.”
Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, To follow the noble vocation; Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another To sit in that honoured station. I've little to say, but only to pray, As praying's the ton of your fashion; A prayer from thee Muse you well may excuse 'Tis seldom her favourite passion.
Ye powers who preside o'er the wind, and the tide, Who marked each element's border; Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, Whose sovereign statute is order:-- Within this dear mansion, may wayward Contention Or withered Envy ne'er enter; May secrecy round be the mystical bound, And brotherly Love be the centre!
An honest man's the noblest work of God--Pope.
When this worthy old sportman 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.--R.B., 1787.
Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? Or great Mackinlay^1 thrawn his heel? Or Robertson^2 again grown weel, To preach an' read? “Na' waur than a'!” cries ilka chiel, “Tam Samson's dead!”
[Footnote 1: A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide “The Ordination.” stanza ii.--R. B.]
[Footnote 2: Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at that time ailing. For him see also “The Ordination,” stanza ix.--R.B.]
Kilmarnock 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 pay'd the kane-- Tam Samson's dead!
The Brethren, o' 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 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! When Winter muffles up his cloak, He was the king o' a' the core, To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, Or up the rink like Jehu roar, In time o' need; But now he lags on Death's hog-score-- Tam Samson's dead!