When chapman billies[48] leave the street, And drouthy[49] neebors neebors meet, As market days are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak' the gate[50]; While we sit bousing at the nappy,[51] An' getting fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps,[52] and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Whaur 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 bonny lasses). O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise, As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,[53] A blethering,[54] blustering, drunken blellum[55]; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was nae sober; That ilka melder,[56] wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That every naig was ca'd a shoe on,[57] The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean[58] till Monday. She prophesied that, late or soon, Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon; Or catched wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,[59] To think how mony counsels sweet, How many lengthened 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,[60] bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats,[61] that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter[62] Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony: Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter, And aye the ale was growing better; The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi' favors, secret, sweet, and precious; The Souter tauld his queerest stories; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus; The storm without might rair[63] and rustle. Tam did na mind, the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drowned himself amang the nappy; As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes winged 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 flower, its bloom is shed! Or like the snowfall 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.