Tam o' the Balloch.
[Written by Hugh Ainslie to the tune of "The Campbells are coming."]
In the Nick o' the Balloch lived Muirland Tam,
Weel stentit wi' brochan and braxie-ham;
A breist like a buird, and a back like a door,
And a wapping wame that hung down afore.
But what's come ower ye, Muirland Tam?
For your leg's now grown like a wheel-barrow tram;
Your e'e it's faun in—your nose it's faun out,
And the skin o' your cheek's like a dirty clout.
O ance, like a yaud, ye spankit the bent,
Wi' a fecket sae fu', and a stocking sae stent,
The strength o' a stot—the wecht o' a cow;
Now, Tammy, my man, ye're grown like a grow.
I mind sin' the blink o' a canty quean
Could watered your mou and lichtit your een;
Now ye leuk like a yowe, when ye should be a ram;
O what can be wrang wi' ye, Muirland Tam?
Has some dowg o' the yirth set your gear abreed?
Ha'e they broken your heart or broken your head?
Ha'e they rackit wi' rungs or kittled wi' steel?
Or, Tammy, my man, ha'e ye seen the deil?
Wha ance was your match at a stoup and a tale?
Wi' a voice like a sea, and a drouth like a whale?
Now ye peep like a powt; ye glumph and ye gaunt;
Oh, Tammy, my man, are ye turned a saunt?
Come, lowse your heart, ye man o' the muir;
We tell our distress ere we look for a cure:
There's laws for a wrang, and sa's for a sair;
Sae, Tammy, my man, what wad ye ha'e mair?
Oh! neebour, it neither was thresher nor thief,
That deepened my e'e, and lichtened my beef;
But the word that makes me sae waefu' and wan,
Is—Tam o' the Balloch's a married man!