An honest man’s the noblest work of God-Pope.

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil?
Or great Mackinlay^1thrawn his heel?
Or Robertson^2again grown weel,
To preach an’ read?
“Na’ waurthan a’! cries ilka chiel,
“Tam Samson’s dead!”

Kilmarnock langmay grunt an’ grane,
An’ sigh, an’ sab, an’ greether lane,
An’ cleedher 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 hingtheir head in woefu’ bevel,
While by their nose the tears will revel,
Like ony bead;
Death’s gienthe Lodge an uncodevel;
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,
Whawill 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!

Now safe the stately sawmontsail,
And trouts bedropp’d wi’ crimson hail,
And eels, weel-ken’d for soupletail,
And geds for greed,
Since, dark in Death’s fish-creel, we wail
Tam Samson’s dead!

Rejoice, ye birringpaitricks a’;
Ye cootiemuircocks, crouselycraw;
Ye maukins, cockyour fudfu’braw
Withouten dread;
Your mortal faeis now awa;
Tam Samson’s dead!

That woefu’ morn be ever mourn’d,
Sawhim in shooting graithadorn’d,
While pointers round impatient burn’d,
Frae couples free’d;
But och! he gaedand ne’er return’d!
Tam Samson’s dead!

In vain auld age his bodybatters,
In vain the gout his ancles fetters,
In vain the burns camdown like waters,
An acre braid!
Now ev’ry auld wife, greetin, clatters
“Tam Samson’s dead!”

Owre mony a weary haghe limpit,
An’ aye the tithershot he thumpit,
Till coward Death behind him jumpit,
Wi’ deadly feid;
Now he proclaims wi’ touto’ trumpet,
“Tam Samson’s dead!”

When at his heart he felt the dagger,
He reel’d his wonted bottle-swagger,
Butyet he drew the mortal trigger,
Wi’weel-aimed heed;
“Lord, five!” he cry’d, an’ owredid stagger-
Tam Samson’s dead!

Ilk hoary hunter mourn’d a brither;
Ilksportsman youth bemoan’d a father;
Yon auldgray stane, amangthe heather,
Marks out his head;
Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether,
“Tam Samson’s dead!”

There, lowhe lies, in lasting rest;
Perhaps upon his mould’ring breast
Some spitefu’ muirfowl bigs her nest
To hatch an’ breed:
Alas! naemairhe’ll them molest!
Tam Samson’s dead!

When August winds the heather wave,
And sportsmen wander by yongrave,
Three volleys let his memory crave,
O’ poutheran’ lead,
TillEcho answer fraeher cave,
“Tam Samson’s dead!”

Heav’n rest his saulwhare’er he be!
Is th’ wish o’ mony maethan me:
He had twafauts, or maybe three,
Yet what remead?
Aesocial, 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 worthin Heaven rise,
Ye’ll mend orye winnear him.

Per Contra

Go, Fame, an’ canter like a filly
Thro’ a’the streets an’neuks o’Killie;^3
Tell ev’ry social honest billie
To cease his grievin’;
For, yet unskaithedbyDeath’s gleggullie.
Tam Samson’s leevin’!