Then gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman;
Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang;
To step aside is human:

One point must still be greatly dark,
The moving why they do it:
And just as lamely can ye mark,
How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone
Decidedly can try us,

He knows each chord-its various tone,
Each spring-its various bias :
Then at the balance let's be mute,

We never can adjust it;

What's done we partly may compute,
But know not what's resisted.

TAM SAMSON'S' ELEGY.

An honest man's the noblest work of God.

РОРЕ.

HAS auld K********* seen the Deil?
Or great M******* 2 thrawn his heel!
Or R******* 3 again grow weel,

To preach an' read?

'Na, waur than a'!' cries ilka chiel,

'Tam Samson's dead!'

K********* lang may grunt an' grane,
An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane,
An' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean,

In mourning weed;

To death, slie's dearly paid the kane,

Tam Samson's dead!

The brethren of the mystic level
May hing their head in wofu' bevel,

1 When this worthy old sportsman went out last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, the last of his fields; and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author composed his Elegy and Epitaph.

2 A certain preacher, a great favourite with the million. Vide the Ordination, stanza ii.

3 Another preacher, an equal favourite with the few, who was at that time ailing. For him see also the Ordination, stanza ix.

While by their nose the tears will revel,
Like ony bead;

Death's gien the lodge an unco devel:

Tam Samson's dead!

When winter muffles up his cloak,
And binds the mire like a rock;
When to the loughs 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, or draw, or wick a bore,
Or up the rink like Jehu roar

In time of need;

But now he lags on death's hog-score,

Tam Samson's dead!

Now safe the stately sawmont sail,
And trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail,
And eels well ken'd for souple tail,

And geds for greed,

Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail

Tam Samson dead!

Rejoice ye birring paitricks a';

Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw;
Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw,

Withouten dread;

Your mortal fae is now awa',

Tam Samson's dead!

That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd
Saw him in shootin graith adorn'd,
While pointers round impatient burn'd,

Frae couples freed;

But, och! he gaed and ne'er return'd!

Tam Samson's dead!

In vain auld age his body batters;
In vain the gout his ankles fetters;
In vain the burns came down like waters,
An acre braid!

Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin, clatters,

Tam Samson's dead!

Owre many a weary hag he limpit,
An' ay the tither shot he thumpit,
Till coward death behind him jumpit,

Wi' deadly feide;

Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet,

Tam Samson's dead!

When at his heart he felt the dagger,
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger,
But yet he drew the mortal trigger

Wi' weel-aim'd heed; <L-d, five!' he cry'd, an' owre did stagger; Tam Samson's dead!

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither;
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father;
Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather,

Marks out his head,

Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, 'Tam Samson's dead!'

There low he lies, in lasting rest;
Perhaps upon his mouldering breast
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest,

To hatch an' breed;

Alas! nae mair he'll them molest!

Tam Samson's dead!

When August winds the heather wave,
And sportsmen wander by yon grave,
Three vollies let his memory crave

O' pouther an' lead,

Till echo answer frae her cave,

Tam Samson's dead!

Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be!
Is the wish o' mony mae than me;
He had twa fauts, or may be three,

Yet what remead?

Ae social, honest man want we :

Tam Samson's dead!