Poems & songs . ather;Yon auld grey stane, among the heather, Marks out his head,Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, Tam Samsons dead ! There low he lies, in lasting rest;Perhaps upon his mouldring breastSome spitefu muirfowl bigs her nest, To hatch an breed;Alas ! nae mair hell them molest! Tam Samsons dead! When August winds the heather wave,And sportsmen wander by yon grave,Three volleys let his memry crave O pouther an lead,Till Echo answer, frae her cave, Tam Samsons dead ! Heavn rest his saul, whareer he be !Is th wish o mony mae than me;He had twa fauts, or may be three, Yet what
Poems & songs . ather;Yon auld grey stane, among the heather, Marks out his head,Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, Tam Samsons dead ! There low he lies, in lasting rest;Perhaps upon his mouldring breastSome spitefu muirfowl bigs her nest, To hatch an breed;Alas ! nae mair hell them molest! Tam Samsons dead! When August winds the heather wave,And sportsmen wander by yon grave,Three volleys let his memry crave O pouther an lead,Till Echo answer, frae her cave, Tam Samsons dead ! Heavn rest his saul, whareer he be !Is th wish o mony mae than me;He had twa fauts, or may be three, Yet what remead 1Ae social, honest man want we; Tam Samsons dead ! Epitaph. Tam Samsons weel-worn clay here liesYe canting zealots spare him ! If honest worth in heaven rise,Yell mend or ye win near him. POEMS BY ROBERT BURNS. Per Contra. Go, Fame, an canter like a filly,Thro a the streets an neuks o Killie,Tell evry social, honest billie To cease his grievin,For yet, unskaithd by deaths gleg gullie, Tarn Samsons MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. A DIRGE. When chill Novembers surly blastMade fields and forests bare, One evning, as I wanderd forthAlong the banks of Ayr, MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. I spyd a man whose aged stepSeemd weary, worn with care; His face was furrowd oer with years,And hoary was his hair. Young stranger, whither wandrest thou 1 Began the revrend sage;Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasures rage 1Or haply, prest with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast beganTo wander forth, with me, to mourn The miseries of man. The sun that overhangs yon moors, Out spreading far and wide,Where hundreds labour to support A haughty lordlings pride ;Ive seen yon weary winter sun Twice forty times return,And evry time has added proofs That man was made to mourn. O man ! while in thy early years, How prodigal of time !Misspending all thy precious hours, Thy glorious youthful prime !Alternate follies take the sway; Licentious passions burn :Which tenfold force gives natu
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Keywords: ., bookauthorburnsrob, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, bookyear1875
