But Tam ken’d what was what fu’ brawly, There was ae winsome wench and waly, That night enlisted in the core, (Lang after ken’d 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 vaunty.— Ah! little ken’d 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 power: To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jade she was, and strang) And how Tam stood like ane bewitch’d, And thought his very een enrich’d; Ev’n Satan glowr’d and fidg’d fu’ fain, And hotch’t, 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 biz 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 rins the market-crowd, When ‘Catch the thief!’ resounds aloud; So Maggie rins—the witches follow, Wi’ mony an eldritch skreech 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 waefu’ woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane o’ the brig; 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 grey tail: The Carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read, Ilk man and mother’s son tak heed: Whane’er to drink you are inclin’d, Or Cutty Sarks rin in your mind, Think, ye may buy the joys owre dear; Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare.’