Ken ye aught o’ Captain Grose?—Igo, and ago, If he’s amang his friends or foes?—Iram, coram, dago. Is he to Abra’m’s bosom gane?—Igo, and ago, Or haudin Sarah by the wame?—Iram, coram dago. Is he south or is he north?—Igo, and ago, Or drowned in the river Forth?—Iram, coram dago. Is he slain by Hielan’ bodies?—Igo, and ago, And eaten like a wether haggis?—Iram, coram, dago. Where’er he be, the Lord be near him!—Igo, and ago, As for the deil, he daur na steer him.—Iram, coram, dago. But please transmit th’ enclosed letter,—Igo, and ago, Which will oblige your humble debtor.—Iram, coram, dago. So may ye hae auld stanes in store,—Igo, and ago, The very stanes that Adam bore.—Iram, coram, dago, So may ye get in glad possession,—Igo, and ago, The coins o’ Satan’s coronation!—Iram coram dago. Tam O’ Shanter A Tale. “Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this Buke.” Gawin Douglas. When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet; As market days are wearing late, And 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 stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Where 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 na sober; That ilka melder wi’ the Miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That ev’ry naig was ca’d a shoe on The Smith and thee gat roarin’ fou on; That at the Lord’s house, ev’n on Sunday, Thou drank wi’ Kirkton Jean till Monday, She prophesied that late or soon, Thou wad 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 mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen’d, sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises!