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THE POEMS OF BURNS.
Tam 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 lo'ed him like a vera brither;They had been fou for weeks thegither.The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter;And ay the ale was growing better:The landlady and Tam grew gracious,Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious:The souter tauld his queerest stories;The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:The storm without might rair and rustle,Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy,E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy:As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure;Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,O'er a' the ills o' life victorious! But pleasures are like poppies spread,You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;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 rainbow's lovely formEvanishing amid the storm.—Nae man can tether time or tide;—The hour approaches Tam maun ride;That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;And sic a night he taks the road in,As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;The rattling show'rs rose on the blast;The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:That night, a child might understand,The Deil had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg,A better never lifted leg,Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,Despising wind, and rain, and fire;Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet;Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares,Lest bogles catch him unawares;Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.—