Tam Samsons Elegy
书迷正在阅读：兔女郎娶老婆、人间录、·缠、几时熟、短篇炸裂故事～、美人账、网游之天下无双之【肏逼无双】、穿书后我和反派在一起了、猎郎、冥婚少女：鬼夫大人我怕黑
tam samson's elegy an ho man's the work of god—pope. when this worthy old sportma out, last muirfowl season, he supposed it was to be, in ossian's phrase, “the last of his fields,” and expressed an ardent wish to die and be buried in the muirs. on this hint the author posed his elegy aaph.—r.b., 1787. has auld kilmarnock seen the deil? reat malay thrawn his heel? or robertson again grown weel, to prea' read? “na' waur than a'!” cries ilka chiel, “tam samson's dead!” kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane, an' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane, an' cleed her bairns, man, wife, an' wean, in m weed; to death she's dearly pay'd the kane— tam samson's dead! the brethren, o' the mystic level may hing their head in woefu' bevel, while by their he tears will revel, like ony bead; death's gien the lodge an unco devel; tam samson's dead! when winter muffles up his cloak, and binds the mire like a rock; when to the loughs the curlers flock, wi' gleesome speed, wha will they station at the cock? tam samson's dead! when winter muffles up his cloak, he was the king o' a' the core, to guard, or draw, or wick a bore, or up the rink like jehu roar, in time o' need; but now he lags oh's hog-score— tam samson's dead! now safe the stately sawmont sail, and trouts bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, and eels, weel-ken'd for souple tail, and geds freed, since, dark ih's fish-creel, we wail tam samson's dead! rejoice, ye birring paitricks a'; ye cootie muircocks, crousely craw; ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw withouten dread; your mortal fae is now awa; tam samson's dead! that woefu' morn be ever mourn'd, saw him in shooting graith adorn'd, while pointers round impatient burn'd, frae couples free'd; but och! he gaed and ne'er return'd! tam samson's dead! in vain auld age his body batters, in vain the gout his ancles fetters, in vain the burns cam down like waters, an acre braid! now ev'ry auld wife, greetin, clatters “tam samson's dead!” owre mony a weary hag he limpit, an' aye the tither shot he thumpit, till coward death behind him jumpit, wi' deadly feid; now he proclaims wi' tout o' trumpet, “tam samson's dead!” when at his heart he felt the dagger, he reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, but yet he drew the mortal trigger, wi' weel-aimed heed; “lord, five!” he cry'd, an' owre did stagger— tam samson's dead! ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither; ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father; yon auld gray stane, amang the heather, marks out his head; whare burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, “tam samson's dead!” there, low he lies, in lasti; perhaps upon his mould'ring breast some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her to hat' breed: alas! nae mair he'll them molest! tam samson's dead! when august winds the heather wave, and sportsmen wander by yon grave, three volleys let his memory crave, o' pouther an' lead, till echo answer frae her cave, “tam samson's dead!” heav' his saul whare'er he be! is th' wish o' mony mae than me: he had twa fauts, or maybe three, yet what remead? ae social, ho man want we: tam samson's dead!