TAM O’SHANTER
When Chapman billies leave the street,
And dronthy neibours neibours meet,
As market-days are wear in late,
And fock begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
And getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scotch miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and oar hame,
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gath'ring ber brows like gath'ring storin
Nursin ker' walk 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 taen thy ain wife Kate's advice;
She tauld thee Weel thoir was a skellum,
A bsbethering, blistering, 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 thon had siller;
That every nag was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the L—d's House, even on Sunday
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday
She prophesy'd, that late or soon,
Thou wad be fond deep drown'd in Doon o
Or catch'd wi' warlocks the mirk,
