But here my Muse her wing maun cour;
      Sic flights are far beyond her power: 
      To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
      (A souple jade she was, and strang)
      And how Tam stood like ane bewitch’d,
      And thought his very een enrich’d;
      Ev’n Satan glowr’d and fidg’d fu’ fain,
      And hotch’t, and blew wi’ might and main;
      Till first ae caper, syne anither,
      Tam tint his reason a’ thegither,
      And roars out, “Weel done, Cutty Sark!”
      And in an instant all was dark;
      And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
      When out the hellish legion sallied.

        As bees biz out wi’ angry fyke
      When plundering herds assail their byke;
      As open pussie’s mortal foes,
      When, pop! she starts before their nose;
      As eager rins the market-crowd,
      When “Catch the thief!” resounds aloud;
      So Maggie rins—­the witches follow,
      Wi’ mony an eldritch skreech and hollow,

        Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou ‘ll get thy fairin’! 
      In hell they’ll roast thee like a herrin’! 
      In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin’! 
      Kate soon will be a waefu’ woman! 
      Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
      And win the key-stane o’ the brig;
      There, at them thou thy tail may toss,
      A running stream they dare na cross;
      But ere the key-stane she could make,
      The fient a tail she had to shake! 
      For Nannie, far before the rest,
      Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
      And flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle;
      But little wist she Maggie’s mettle—­
      Ae spring brought off her master hale,
      But left behind, her ain grey tail: 
      The Carlin claught her by the rump,
      And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

        Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read,
      Ilk man and mother’s son tak heed: 
      Whane’er to drink you are inclin’d,
      Or Cutty Sarks rin in your mind,
      Think, ye may buy the joys owre dear;
      Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare.”

Burns has given the extremes of licentious eccentricity and convivial enjoyment, in the story of this scape-grace, and of patriarchal simplicity and gravity in describing the old national character of the Scottish peasantry.  The Cotter’s Saturday Night is a noble and pathetic picture of human manners, mingled with a fine religious awe.  It comes over the mind like a slow and solemn strain of music.  The soul of the poet aspires from this scene of low-thoughted care, and reposes, in trembling hope, on “the bosom of its Father and its God.”  Hardly any thing can be more touching than the following stanzas, for instance, whether as they describe human interests, or breathe a lofty devotional spirit.

      “The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes,
        This night his weekly moil is at an end,
      Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
        Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend,
      And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend.