Tam O'Shanter

WHEN chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors, neebors meet, As market-days are wearing late, An’ folk begin to tak the gate; While we sit bousing at the nappy, An’ getting fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, That lie between us and our hame, Whar 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 bonny lasses).

O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise, As ta’en thy ain wife Kate’s advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was nae sober; That lika 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 L—d’s house, ev’n on Sunday, Thou drank wi’ Kirton Jean till Monday. She prophesy’d that late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown’d in Doon; Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway’s auld haunted kirk.