There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart,
It does not feel for man; the natural bond
Of brotherhood is severed as the flax
That falls asunder at the touch of fire.
* * * * *
ROBERT BURNS.
TAM O'SHANTER.
When chapman billies[150] leave the street,
And drouthy[151] neebors neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late
An' folk begin to tak the gate;[152]
While we sit bousing at the nappy,[153]
An' getting fou[154] and unco[155] happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses,[156] waters, slaps,[157] and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare 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[158] 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 wast a skellum,[159]
A blethering,[160] blustering, drunken blellum;[161]
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou wasna sober;
That ilka melder,[162] wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That every naig was ca'd[163] a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirten Jean till Monday.
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