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 thinkna 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

As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum,

A blethering, blustering, 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 every 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 Doon:

Or catched wi' warlocks i' the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,

To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony 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 Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; Tam lo'ed him like a vera 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' favors, secret, sweet, and precious: