But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 115 120 Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit, *** wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwooddie hags wad spean a foal, 160 I wonder didna turn thy stomach. But Tam kend what was what fu' brawlie, Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, It was her best, and she was vauntie.. 175 Wad ever grac'd a dance o' witches! But here my muse her wing maun cour; Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; 180 To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade she was, and strang,) And thought his very een enrich'd; Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, 185 And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out, " 'Weel done, Cutty-sark!" And in an instant all was dark: 190 And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke; When, pop! she starts before their nose; 66 When, Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; 200 So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow. Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin ! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 205 210 215 220 225 TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessing wi' the lave, And never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell an' keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare and waste, An' weary winter comin' fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past, That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' mice an' men An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear! TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786. WEE, modest, crimson-tippéd flow'r, To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet! Wi' spreckled breast, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet 35 40 45 5 IO The purpling east. |