Tam Samsons Elegy（3 / 4）

  till coward death behind him jumpit,
  wi' deadly feid;
  now he proclaims wi' tout o' trumpet,
  “tam samson's dead!”
  when at his heart he felt the dagger,
  he reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger,
  but yet he drew the mortal trigger,
  wi' weel-aimed heed;
  “lord, five!” he cry'd, an' owre did stagger—
  tam samson's dead!
  ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither;
  ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father;
  yon auld gray stane, amang the heather,
  marks out his head;
  whare burns has wrote, in rhyming blether,
  “tam samson's dead!”
  there, low he lies, in lasting rest;
  perhaps upon his mould'ring breast
  some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest
  to hatch an' breed:
  alas! nae mair he'll them molest!
  tam samson's dead!
  when august winds the heather wave,
  and sportsmen wander by yon grave,
  three volleys let his memory crave,
  o' pouther an' lead,
  till echo answer frae her cave,
  “tam samson's dead!”
  heav'n rest his saul whare'er he be!
  is th' wish o' mony mae than me: ↑返回顶部↑