An folk begin to tak the gate;

While we sit bousing at the nappy,

An getting fou and unco happy,

We think na on the lang Scots miles,

The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,

That lie between us and our hame,

Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,

Gathering her brows like gathering storm,

Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shanter,

As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:

(Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses,

For honest men and bonie lasses).

O Tam had’st 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;

That ilka melder wi the miller,

Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;

That ev’ry naig was cad a shoe on,

The smith and thee gat roarin fou on;

That at the Lord’s house, even on Sunday,

Thou drank wi Kirkton Jean till Monday.

She prophesied that, late or soon,

Thou would be found, deep drown’d in Doon,

Or catch’d wi warlocks in the mirk,

By Alloway’s auld, haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames, it gars me greet,

To think how monie counsels sweet,

How monie lengthen’d, sage advices

The husband frae the wife despises!

But to our tale: Ae market-night,

Tam had got planted unco right,

Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,

Wi reaming swats, that drank divinely;

And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,

His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie:

Tam lo’ed him like a very brither;

They had been fou for weeks thegither.

The night drave on wi sangs and clatter;

And ay the ale was growing better:

The landlady and Tam 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 rair and rustle,

Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,

E’en drown’d himsel amang the nappy.

As bees flee hame wi lades o treasure,

The minutes wing’d their way wi pleasure:

Kings may be blest but Tam was glorious,

O’er a’ the ills o life victorious!

But pleasures are like poppies spread:

You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed;

Or like the snow falls in the river,

A moment white – then melts for ever;

Or like the borealis race,

That flit ere you can point their place;

Or like the rainbow’s lovely form

Evanishing amid the storm. –

Nae man can tether time or tide,

The hour approaches Tam maun ride:

That hour, o night’s black arch the key-stane,

That dreary hour Tam mounts his beast in;

And sic a night he taks the road in,

As ne’er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as ’twad blawn its last

The rattling showers rose on the blast;

The speedy gleams the darkness swallow’d;

Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow’d;

That night, a child might understand,