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TAM O'SHANTER.
A TALE.
When Chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibours neibours meet,
As market-days are wearin late,
And fock begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
And getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scotch miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gath'ring her brows like gath‘ring storm,
Nursin her wrath to keep it warm.
And drouthy neibours neibours meet,
As market-days are wearin late,
And fock begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
And getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scotch miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gath'ring her brows like gath‘ring storm,
Nursin her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As be frae Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonny lasses.)
As be 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 taen 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 nae sober:
As taen 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 nae sober:
H2
