A knife, a father’s throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o’ life bereft— The gray hairs yet stack to the heft; Wi’ mair of horrible and awfu’, Which even to name wad be unlawfu’. As Tammie glowr’d, amaz’d, and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: The piper loud and louder blew; The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reel’d, they set, they cross’d, they cleekit, Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linkit at it in her sark! Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans, A’ plump and strapping in their teens; Their sarks, instead o’ creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen! Thir breeks o’ mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o’ gude blue hair, I wad hae gi’en them off my hurdies, For ae blink o’ the bonnie burdies! But wither’d beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Louping and flinging on a crummock, I wonder didna turn thy stomach. But Tam kent what was what fu’ brawlie: There was ae winsome wench and walie That night enlisted in the core, Lang after kent on Carrick shore! (For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish’d mony a bonnie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear.) Her cutty sark, o’ Paisley harn, That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude tho’ sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie. Ah! little kent thy reverend grannie That sark she coft for her wee Nannie Wi’ twa pund Scots (’twas a’ her riches) Wad ever grac’d a dance of witches! But here my muse her wing maun cour; Sic flights are far beyond her pow’r— To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jad she was, and strang); And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch’d, And thought his very een enrich’d; Even Satan glowr’d, and fidg’d fu’ fain, And hotch’d and blew wi’ might and main: Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a’ thegither, And roars out ‘Weel done, Cutty-sark!’ And in an instant all was dark! And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke When plundering herds assail their byke, As open pussie’s mortal foes When pop! she starts before their nose, As eager runs the market-crowd, When ‘Catch the thief!’ resounds aloud. So Maggie runs; the witches follow, Wi’ mony an eldritch skriech and hollow. Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou’ll get thy fairin’! In hell they’ll roast thee like a herrin’! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin’! Kate soon will be a woefu’ woman! Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane o’ the brig: