. Poems and songs . Sunday, Thou drank wi Kirton Jean till Monday. She prophesied that, late or soon, Thou wad be found deep drownd in boon ; Or catchd wi warlocks in the mirk, By Alloways auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greetTo think how mony counsels sweet,How mony lengthend sage advices,The husband frae the wife despises ! But to our tale :—Ae market-night,Tarn 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 loed him like a vera blither ;They had been fou
. Poems and songs . Sunday, Thou drank wi Kirton Jean till Monday. She prophesied that, late or soon, Thou wad be found deep drownd in boon ; Or catchd wi warlocks in the mirk, By Alloways auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greetTo think how mony counsels sweet,How mony lengthend sage advices,The husband frae the wife despises ! But to our tale :—Ae market-night,Tarn 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 loed him like a vera blither ;They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi sangs and clatter,And aye, the ale was growin better ;The landlady and Tam grew gracious,Wi favours secret, sweet, and precious ,The souter tauld his queerest stories ;The landlords laugh was ready chorus ;The storm without might rair and rustle,Tam didna mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy,Ken drownd himsel aiming the napp) i. 74 I AM 0 SHANTER. !. As bees flee hame wi lades o treasure,The minutes wingd their way wi pleasure ,Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious,Oer a the ills o life victorious ! But pleasures are like poppies spread—You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; TAM (> SHANTER. Or like the snow-falls in the river, A moment white—then melts for ever : Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place ; Or like the rainbows lovely form Evanishing amid the storm.— Nae man can tether time or tide ; The hour approaches Tarn maun ride ; That hour, o nights black arch the key-stane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; An sic a night he taks the road in, As neer poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as twad blawn its last ;The rattling showrs rose on the blast;The speedy gleams the darkness swallowd ;Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowd :That night a child might understand,The deil had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg—A better never lif
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Keywords: ., bookauthorburnsrob, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1850, bookyear1858
