Page:Beauties of Burn's poems.pdf/125

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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.