Page:Beauties of Burn's poems.pdf/88

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That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That every nag was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the L—d's house, even on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesy'd, that late or soon,
Thou wad be found deep drown'd in Doon;
Or catch'd wi' warlocks i' the mirk,
In Alloway's auld haunted Kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!

But to our tale: Ae market-night,
Tam had got planted unco right
East by an ingle, bleezing finery,
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely:
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny.
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony:
Tam lo'ed him like a very brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter,
And aye the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tant grew gracious.
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious:
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rain and rustle,
Tam did not mind the storm a whistle
Care, mad to see a man so happy
E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy.