Inspiring bold John Barleycorn,
  What dangers thou canst make us scorn! 
  Wi’ tippenny, we fear nae evil;
  Wi’ usquebae, we’ll face the Devil! 
  The swats sae reamed in Tammie’s noddle,
  Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle. 
  But Maggie stood, right sair astonished,
  Till, by the heel and hand admonished,
  She ventured forward on the light;
  And, vow!  Tam saw an unco sight!

  Warlocks and witches in a dance;
  Nae cotillion, brent new frae France,
  But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
  Put life and mettle in their heels. 
  A winnock-bunker in the east,
  There sat Auld Nick, in shape o’ beast;
  A towsie tyke, black, grim, and large,
  To gie them music was his charge: 
  He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl,
  Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl. 
  Coffins stood round, like open presses,
  That shawed the dead in their last dresses,
  And, by some devilish cantraip sleight,
  Each in its cauld hand held a light: 
  By which heroic Tam was able
  To note, upon the haly table,
  A murderer’s banes, in gibbet-airns;
  Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;
  A thief, new-cutted frae a rape—­
  Wi’ his last gasp his gab did gape;
  Five tomahawks, wi’ bluid red-rusted;
  Five scimitars, wi’ murder crusted;
  A garter which a babe had strangled;
  A knife a father’s throat had mangled,
  Whom, his ain son o’ life bereft—­
  The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft;
  Wi’ mair of horrible and awfu’,
  Which even to name wad be unlawfu’.

  As Tammie glowered, amazed and curious,
  The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: 
  The piper loud and louder blew,
  The dancers quick and quicker flew;
  They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit,
  Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
  And coost her duddies to the wark,
  And linket at it in her sark!

  Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans,
  A’ plump and strapping in their teens! 
  Their sarks, instead o’ creeshie flannen,
  Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen! 
  Thir breeks o’ mine, my only pair,
  That ance were plush, o’ guid blue hair,
  I wad hae gi’en them off my hurdies,
  For ae blink o’ the bonie burdies!

  But withered beldams, auld and droll,
  Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
  Louping and flinging on a crummock,
  I wonder didna turn thy stomach!

  But Tam kend what was what fu’ brawlie: 
  There was ae winsome wench and wawlie,
  That night enlisted in the core,
  Lang after kend on Carrick shore
  (For monie a beast to dead she shot,
  An’ perished monie a bonie boat,
  And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
  And kept the country-side in fear). 
  Her cutty sark, o’ Paisley harn,
  That while a lassie she had worn,
  In longitude tho’ sorely scanty,
  It was her best, and she was vauntie.—­
  Ah, little kend thy reverend grannie
  That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
  Wi’ twa pund Scots (’twas a’ her riches),
  Wad ever graced a dance o’ witches!