Warlocks and witches in a dance,
      Nae light cotillion new frae France,
      But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
      Put life and mettle in their heels. 
      As winnock-bunker, in the east,
      There sat auld Nick, in shape o’ beast;
      A touzie 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 cantrip slight,
      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, unchristen’d 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, o’ horrible and awfu’,
      Which e’en to name wad be unlawfu’.

        As Tammie glowr’d amaz’d, and curious,
      The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: 
      The Piper loud and louder blew;
      The dancers quick and quicker flew;
      They reel’d, they set, they cross’d, 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 they been queans
      A’ plump and strapping in their teens;
      Their sarks, instead o’ creeshie flannen,
      Been snaw-white seventeen hundred linen! 
      Thir breeks o’ mine, my only pair,
      That ance were plush, o’ guid blue hair,
      I wad hae gi’en them aff my hurdies,
      For ae blink o’ the bonnie burdies!

        But wither’d beldams, auld and droll,
      Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
      Louping and flinging on a crummock,
      I wonder did na turn thy stomach.

        But Tam ken’d what was what fu’ brawly,
      There was ae winsome wench and waly,
      That night enlisted in the core,
      (Lang after ken’d on Carrick shore;
      For mony a beast to dead she shot,
      And perish’d mony a bonnie 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 vaunty.—­
      Ah! little ken’d thy reverend grannie,
      That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
      Wi’ twa pund Scots (’twas a’ her riches),
      Wad ever grac’d a dance of witches!