Twenty-Four Unusual Stories for Boys and Girls Part 26

She prophesy'd, that late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises!

But to our tale:--Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right; Fast by an ingle bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; They had been fou' for weeks thegither!

The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter; And ay the ale was growing better: The storm without might rair and rustle-- Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, made to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy!

As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious.

But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white--then melts for ever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm.

Nae man can tether time or tide; The hour approaches Tam maun ride; That hour, o' night's black arch the kay-stane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; And sic a night he taks the road in As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattling show'rs rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd: That night, a child might understand, The De'il had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet; Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, Les bogles catch him unawares; Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.

By this time he was cross the foord, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; And past the birks and meikle stane, Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane; And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'.

Before him Doon pours all his floods; The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; The lightnings flash from pole to pole; Near and more near the thunders roll; When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze; Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing; And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn!

What dangers thou canst make us scorn!

Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil!

The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noodle, Fair play, he car'd nae deils a boddle.

But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 'Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventur'd forward on the light; And wow! Tam saw an unco sight!

Warlocks and witches in a dance; Nae cotillion brent new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels: A winnock-bunker in the east, There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge; He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl-- 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, 'Til ilka carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark!

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie, There was a winsome wench and walie, That night enlisted in the core, (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick sh.o.r.e; 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 la.s.sie, she had worn, In longitude tho' sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie.

Ah! little kenn'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 pow'r; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A soup'e jade 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: 'Til first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out, "Well done, Cutty-sark!"

And in an instant all was dark: And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the h.e.l.lish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi' angry gyke, When plundering herds a.s.sail their byke; As open p.u.s.s.ie'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 screech and hollow.

Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin'!

In h.e.l.l 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 of the brig; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they darena 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 n.o.ble Maggie prest, And flew at Tammie 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, Ilk man and mother's son, take heed: Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think! ye may buy the joys o'er dear-- Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.

ROBERT BURNS.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE BOGGART]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 32: It is a well-known fact that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor wight any further than the middle of the next running stream. It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveler, that when he falls in with _bogles,_ whatever danger there may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back.]

THE BOGGART[33]

IN an old farm-house in Yorkshire, where lived an honest farmer named George Gilbertson, a Boggart had taken up his abode. He caused a good deal of trouble, and he kept tormenting the children, day and night, in various ways. Sometimes their bread and b.u.t.ter would be s.n.a.t.c.hed away, or their porringers of bread and milk be capsized by an invisible hand; for the Boggart never let himself be seen; at other times the curtains of their beds would be shaken backwards and forwards, or a heavy weight would press on and nearly suffocate them. Their mother had often, on hearing their cries, to fly to their aid.

There was a kind of closet, formed by a wooden part.i.tion on the kitchen-stairs, and a large knot having been driven out of one of the deal-boards of which it was made, there remained a round hole. Into this, one day, the farmer's youngest boy stuck the shoe-horn with which he was amusing himself, when immediately it was thrown out again, and struck the boy on the head. Of course it was the Boggart did this, and it soon became their sport, which they called _larking with the Boggart,_ to put the shoe-horn into the hole and have it shot back at them. But the gamesome Boggart at length proved such a torment that the farmer and his wife resolved to quit the house and let him have it all to himself. This settled, the flitting day came, and the farmer and his family were following the last loads of furniture, when a neighbor named John Marshall came up.

"Well, Georgey," said he, "and so you're leaving t'ould hoose at last?"

"Heigh, Johnny, my lad, I'm forced to it; for that bad Boggart torments us so, we can neither rest night nor day for't. It seems to have such a malice against t'poor bairns, it almost kills my poor dame here at thoughts on't, and so, ye see, we're forced to flitt loike."

He scarce had uttered the words when a voice from a deep upright churn cried out. _"Aye, aye, Georgey, we're flittin ye see!"_

"Ods, alive!" cried the farmer, "if I'd known thou would flit too, I'd not have stirred a peg!"

And with that, he turned about to his wife, and told her they might as well stay in the old house, as be bothered by the Boggart in a new one.

So stay they did.

THE END

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 33: From _Fairy-Gold_, a book of old English Fairy Tales.

Chosen by Ernest Rhys.]