reminds one of Launce’s account of his dog Crabbe, where he is said, as an instance of his being in the way of promotion, “to have got among three or four gentleman-like dogs under the Duke’s table.”  The “Halloween” is the most striking and picturesque description of local customs and scenery.  The Brigs of Ayr, the Address to a Haggis, Scotch Drink, and innumerable others are, however, full of the same kind of characteristic and comic painting.  But his master-piece in this way is his Tam o’Shanter.  I shall give the beginning of it, but I am afraid I shall hardly know when to leave off.

        “When chapman billies leave the street,
      And drouthy neebors, neebors meet,
      As market-days are wearing late,
      And folk begin to tak the gate;
      While we sit bousing at the nappy,
      And 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,
      Whare 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 bonny lasses.)

        O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise,
      As ta’en 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 roaring fou on;
      That at the Lord’s house, ev’n on Sunday,
      Thou drank wi’ Kirton Jean till Monday—­
      She prophesy’d, that late or soon,
      Thou wad be found deep drown’d in Doon;
      Or catch’t 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 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 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.