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Ae market-day thou was nae sober;That ilka melder, wi' the millerThou 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' Kirkton 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.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,To think how mony counsels sweet,How mony lengthen'd 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 an clatter:And ay the ale was growing better:The landlady and Tam grew gracious,Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious:The Souter tauld his queerest stories;The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:The storm without might rair and rustle,Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.
Care mad to see a man sae happy,E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy:As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!
