When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neibors neibors meet, As market-days are wearing late, 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, 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 bonnie 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, A bletherin’, blusterin’, 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 every naig was ca’d 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 mony counsels sweet, How mony 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 Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; Tam lo’ed him like a very brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi’ sangs and clatter, And aye 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, it’s 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 nor tide; The hour approaches Tam maun ride; That hour, o’ night’s black arch the key-stane,