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Ilk hoary Hunter mourn'd a brither, Ilk Sportsman-youth bemoan'd a father! Yon auld grey-stane amang the heather, Marks out his head, Whar BURNS has wrote, in rhymin blether, "Tam Samson's dead!"
There low he lies in lasting rest; Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast Some spitetu' murfowl bigs her nest, To hatch and breed; Alas! nae mair he'll them molest, Tam Samson's dead!
When August winds the heather wave, And Sportsmen wander by yon waves Three vollies let his memory crave, O' pouther and lead, Till echo answer frae her grave, Pam Samson's dead!
Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be, Is the wish o'mony mae than me; He had twa fauts, or maybe three, Yet what remead ? Ae social honest man want we, Tam Samson's dead?
THE EPITAPH.
TAM SAMSON's weel-worn clay here lies, Ye canting Zealots spare him; If Honest Werth in Heaven rise, Ye'll mend or ye win near him.
