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 of 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 form,
      Evanishing 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 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 haulding fast his gude blue bonnet;
      Whiles crooning o’er some auld Scots sonnet;
      Whiles glowring round wi’ prudent cares,
      Lest bogles catch him unawares;
      Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
      Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.—­

        By this time Tam was cross the ford,
      Whare in the snaw, the chapman smoor’d;
      And past the birks and meikle stane,
      Whare 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,
      Whare 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: 
      Whan, 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’ Usqueba, we’ll face the devil! 
      The swats sae ream’d in Tammie’s noddle,
      Fair play, he car’d na de’ils 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, vow!  Tam saw an unco sight!