Or like the Rainbow’s lovely form
     Evanishing amid the storm.—­
     Nae man can tether Time nor 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 showers 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’rin round wi’ prudent cares,
     Lest bogles catch him unawares;
     Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
     Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

     By this time he was cross the ford,
     Where in the snaw the chapman smoor’d;
     And past the birks and meikle stane,
     Where drunken Charlie brak’s neck-bane;
     And thro’ the whins, and by the cairn,
     Where hunters fand the murder’d bairn;
     And near the thorn, aboon the well,
     Where Mungo’s mither hang’d hersel’. 
     Before him Doon pours all his floods,
     The doubling storm roars thro’ the woods,
     The lightnings flash from pole to pole,
     Near and more near the thunders roll,
     When, glimmering thro’ the groaning trees,
     Kirk-Alloway seem’d in a bleeze,
     Thro’ ilka bore the beams were glancing,
     And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

     Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! 
     What dangers thou canst make us scorn! 
     Wi’ tippenny, we fear nae evil;
     Wi’ usquabae, we’ll face the devil! 
     The swats sae ream’d in Tammie’s noddle,
     Fair play, he car’d na deils a boddle,
     But Maggie stood, right sair astonish’d,
     Till, by the heel and hand admonish’d,
     She ventur’d forward on the light;
     And, wow!  Tam saw an unco sight!

     Warlocks and witches in a dance: 
     Nae cotillon, 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 towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
     To gie them music was his charge: 
     He screw’d the pipes and gart them skirl,
     Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl.—­
     Coffins stood round, like open presses,
     That shaw’d the Dead in their last dresses;
     And (by some devilish cantraip sleight)
     Each in its cauld hand