There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross! But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake: For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie’s mettle! Ae spring brought off her master hale, But left behind her ain gray tail: The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read, Each man and mother’s son, take heed; Whene’er to drink you are inclin’d, Or cutty-sarks rin in your mind, Think! ye may buy the joys o’er dear; Remember Tom o’ Shanter’s mare. THE VISION DUAN FIRST The sun had closed the winter day, The curlers quat their roarin’ play, An’ hunger’d maukin taen her way To kail-yards green, While faithless snaws ilk step betray Where she has been. The thresher’s weary flingin’-tree The lee-lang day had tirèd me: And when the day had clos’d his e’e, Far i’ the west, Ben i’ the spence, right pensivelie, I gaed to rest. There lanely by the ingle-cheek I sat and eyed the spewing reek, That fill’d, wi’ hoast-provoking smeek The auld clay biggin’; An’ heard the restless rattons squeak About the riggin’. All in this mottie misty clime, I backward mused on wasted time, How I had spent my youthfu’ prime, An’ done nae-thing, But stringin’ blethers up in rhyme, For fools to sing. Had I to guid advice but harkit, I might, by this, hae led a market, Or strutted in a bank, and clarkit My cash-account: While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, Is a’ th’ amount. I started, mutt’ring ‘blockhead! coof!’ And heaved on high my waukit loof, To swear by a’ yon starry roof, Or some rash aith, That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof Till my last breath— When click! the string the snick did draw; An’ jee! the door gaed to the wa’; And by my ingle-lowe I saw, Now bleezin’ bright, A tight outlandish hizzie, braw, Come full in sight. Ye need na doubt I held my whisht; The infant aith, half-form’d, was crusht; I glowr’d as eerie’s I’d been dusht In some wild glen; When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, An’ steppèd ben. Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs Were twisted, gracefu’, round her brows; I took her for some Scottish Muse By that same token; And come to stop these reckless vows, Would soon been broken.