Tam O Shanter（2 / 2）

but maggie stood, right sair astonish'd,

till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,

she ventur'd forward on the light;

and, wow! tam saw an unco sight!

warlocks and witches in a dance:

nae cotillon, brent new frae france,

but hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,

put life and mettle in their heels.

a winnock-bunker in the east,

there sat auld nick, in shape o' beast;

a towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,

to gie them music was his charge:

he screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,

till roof and rafters a' did dirl.—

coffins stood round, like open presses,

that shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;

and (by some devilish cantraip sleight)

each in its cauld hand held a light.

by which heroic tam was able

to note upon the haly table,

a murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns;

twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;

a thief, new-cutted frae a rape,

wi' his last gasp his gabudid gape;

five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted:

five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;

a garter which a babe had strangled:

a knife, a father's throat had mangled.

whom his ain son of life bereft,

the grey-hairs yet stack to the heft;

wi' mair of horrible and awfu',

which even to name wad be unlawfu'.

as tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious,

the mirth and fun grew fast and furious;

the piper loud and louder blew,

the dancers quick and quicker flew,

the reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,

till ilka carlin swat and reekit,

and coost her duddies to the wark,

and linkit at it in her sark!

now tam, o tam! had they been queans,

a' plump and strapping in their teens!

their sarks, instead o' creeshie flainen,

been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!—

thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,

that ance were plush o' guid blue hair,

i wad hae gien them off my hurdies,

for ae blink o' the bonie burdies!

but wither'd beldams, auld and droll,

rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,

louping an' flinging on a crummock.

i wonder did na turn thy stomach.

but tam kent what was what fu' brawlie:

there was ae winsome wench and waulie

that night enlisted in the core,

lang after ken'd on carrick shore;

(for mony a beast to dead she shot,

and perish'd mony a bonie boat,

and shook baith meikle corn and bear,

and kept the country-side in fear);

her cutty sark, o' paisley harn,

that while a lassie she had worn,

in longitude tho' sorely scanty,

it was her best, and she was vauntie.

ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,

that sark she coft for her wee nannie,

wi twa pund scots ('twas a' her riches),

wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!

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 bewithc'd,

and thought his very een enrich'd:

even satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,

and hotch'd 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 bizz 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 runs the market-crowd,

when “catch the thief!” resounds aloud;

so maggie runs, the witches follow,

wi' mony an eldritch skreich 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 woefu' woman!

now, do thy speedy-utmost, meg,

and win the key-stone o' the brig;

there, at them thou thy tail may toss,

a running stream they dare na cross.

but ere the keystane 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, take heed:

whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,

or cutty-sarks rin in your mind,

think ye may buy the joys o'er dear;

remember tam o' shanter's mare.