When chapman billies leave the street,
     And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet;
     As market days are wearing late,
     And folk begin to tak the gate,
     While we sit bousing at the nappy,
     An’ getting fou and unco happy,
     We think na on the lang Scots miles,
     The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
     That lie between us and our hame,
     Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,
     Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
     Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

     This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shanter,
     As he frae Ayr ae night did canter: 
     (Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses,
     For honest men and bonie lasses).

     O Tam! had’st thou but been sae wise,
     As taen thy ain wife Kate’s advice! 
     She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
     A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
     That frae November till October,
     Ae market-day thou was na sober;
     That ilka melder wi’ the Miller,
     Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
     That ev’ry naig was ca’d a shoe on
     The Smith and thee gat roarin’ fou on;
     That at the Lord’s house, ev’n on Sunday,
     Thou drank wi’ Kirkton Jean till Monday,
     She prophesied that late or soon,
     Thou wad be found, deep drown’d in Doon,
     Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the mirk,
     By Alloway’s auld, haunted kirk.

     Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
     To think how mony counsels sweet,
     How mony lengthen’d, sage advices,
     The husband frae the wife despises!

     But to our tale:  Ae market night,
     Tam had got planted unco right,
     Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
     Wi reaming saats, that drank divinely;
     And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
     His ancient, trusty, drougthy crony: 
     Tam lo’ed him like a very brither;
     They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
     The night drave on wi’ sangs an’ clatter;
     And aye 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;