[Quincy Lehr]

There's always...

TAM O'SHANTER

by Robert Burns

"Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this Buke."
Gawin Douglas.

When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet;
As market days are wearing late,
And folk begin to tak the gate,
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where 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 night did canter:
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses).

O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober;
That ilka melder wi' the Miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on
The Smith and thee gat roarin' fou on;
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday,
She prophesied that late or soon,
Thou wad 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 sAats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, drougthy crony:
Tam lo'ed him like a very brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter;
And aye the ale was growing better:
The Landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious:
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The Landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himsel 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 nor Tide,
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-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 showers 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 deil had business on his hand.

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

By this time he was cross the ford,
Where 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 noddle,
Fair play, he car'd na 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 cotillon, 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. -
Coffins stood round, like open presses,
That shaw'd the Dead in their last dresses;
And (by some devilish cantraip sleight)
Each in its cauld hand held a light.
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderer's banes, in gibbet-airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi' his last gasp his gabudid gape;
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted:
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;
A garter which a babe had strangled:
A knife, a father's throat had mangled.
Whom his ain son of life bereft,
The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi' mair of horrible and awfu',
Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.
Three lawyers tongues, turned inside oot,
Wi' lies, seamed like a beggars clout,
Three priests hearts, rotten, black as muck,
Lay stinkin, vile in every neuk.

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,
The reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
And coost her duddies to the wark,
And linkit at it in her sark!

Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans,
A' plump and strapping in their teens!
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flainen,
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!-
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush o' guid blue hair,
I wad hae gien them off my hurdies,
For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!
But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Louping an' flinging on a crummock.
I wonder did na turn thy stomach.

But Tam kent what was what fu' brawlie:
There was ae winsome wench and waulie
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 bonie 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 vauntie.
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 bewithc'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:
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 bizz 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 runs the market-crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch skreich 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 woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stone o' the brig;^1
There, at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the keystane 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, 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 Tam o' Shanter's mare.

[Jim Hayes]

The McGrump’s Halloween Ball

The invites were dispatched, when McGrumps threw a ball,
to gargoyles and goblins and ghouls: “Come you all!”
To death’s-heads that rattled their chains in dank tombs,
to ugly old witches disporting on brooms.

The cards that went out were marked R.S.V.P.
meaning Rattle Snakes, Vampires and such were to be
partnered with Poltergeists packed in the hall
when the band began playing The Dead March from Saul.

Witches’ familiars were welcomed, as well
as cloven-foot devils from Lucifer’s hell,
and a ghost with her head in her hand came escorted
by a skull-faced gorilla that shrieked and cavorted.

How rare was the fare that they had for hors d’oeuvres
cold carrion cuts with sweet offal preserves,
flambé of leeches (these cooked while alive)
followed by rat á la bubonic hive.

The McGrumps had a cellar amassed with great care
with type A and type B and O negative (rare),
dispensed by decanter, or portable drips
for the communal guzzling of those lacking lips.

At the height of the ball the Grim Reaper was flailing;
to the skirling of bagpipes the Banshees were wailing;
tombstones burst open and corpses unhoused
the night the McGrumps and their family caroused.

Then at the dawn of the oncoming day,
as the horrors of Hades all shuffled away,
Grandpa McGrump turned to Grandma and said
”If you can’t have some fun there’s no point being dead!”

Jim Hayes

[Mike Slippkauskas]

I may be straying far afield here but Christina Rossetti's "Goblin Market" is a poem of the front rank. And if I've named that then why not Robert Browning's "Pied Piper of Hamelin"? Auden's "Dame Kind" is creepy. Comb at will through Iona and Peter Opie's "Oxford Dictionary of Nursery Rhymes". But I'll stop. This thread's not titled "Unpleasant Poems". If it were I'd mention the whole works of the late underrated, perversely imaginative Scot George MacBeth.

Mike Slipp

[Roger Slater]

I second the endorsement of Browning's "Pied Piper," which, for those of you who don't know it, I hereby convey my heartiest rave. You'll be surprised, I think, since it doesn't read at all like typical Browning such as "My Last Duchess," which, by the way, is as suitable for a Halloween roundup as is "Piep Piper" (which is to say only marginally at best).

(Jim, thanks. I love McGrumps).

[This message has been edited by Roger Slater (edited October 07, 2006).]

[Gregory Dowling]

Probably not quite what you had in mind, Chris, but here's an alternative take on Halloween by Rhina Espaillat:

Pirates and Witches

Where have they scattered,
pirates and witches
rustling their bags
of cellophaned riches?

Some to the marketplace,
some to the law,
one to the word of God
and one to war;

Some to the labor room,
some to divorce,
one stalled and trembling
like an old horse.

Who could have told us
one Halloween
would drive the ghost away,
depose the queen,

blow them away like smoke
and leave our streets
begging at memory's door
for pennies and sweets!

[Gail White]

This is a terrific thread. For one thing, it gives me a chance to plug CHANCE OF A GHOST: An Anthology of Contemporary Ghost Poems, which you can get from Helicon Nine Editions (www.heliconnine.com). It's full of good scary stuff. (Full disclosure: I'm in it too).

Here's an old favorite of mine from the treasury of folk poetry - very good for reading at the fireside on a cold winter night. I'm modernizing the Yorkshire dialect:

THE CLEVELAND LYKE-WAKE DIRGE

On this night, on this night,
Every night and all,
Fire and flame and candle-light,
And Christ take up thy soul.

When thou from hence away art past,
Every night and all,
To Whinny-Muir thou comest at last,
And Christ take up the soul.

If e'er thou gavest hose and shoon,
Every night and all,
Then sit thee down and put them on,
And Christ take up thy soul.

But if hose and shoon thou ne'er gave none,
Every night and all,
The whins shall prick thee to the bare bone,
And Christ take up thy soul.

From Whinny-Muir when thou art past,
Every night and all,
To Purgatory Fire thou comest at last,
And Christ take up thy soul.

If e'er thou gavest meat and drink,
Every night and all,
The fire shall never make thee shrink,
And Christ take up they soul.

But if meat and drink thou ne'er gave none,
Every night and all,
The fire shall burn thee to the bare bone,
And Christ take up thy soul.

From Purgatory Fire when thou art past,
Every night and all,
To the Bridge of Dread thou comest at last,
And Christ take up thy soul.

If e'er thou gavest silver and gold,
Every night and all,
On the Bridge of Dread thou'lt find a foothold,
And Christ take up thy soul.

But if silver and gold thou ne'er gave ane,
Every night and all,
Down, down thou fall'st into Hell's flame,
And Christ take up thy soul.

On this night, on this night,
Every night and all,
Fire and flame and candle-light,
And Christ take up thy soul.

[Willi Schantel]

I will sue this thread for a busted gut, if and when I can stop laughing

[Gail White]

Another seasonal poem, this one by Stevie Smith.
Her explanation is that the cats in this poem belong
to a witch:

MY CATS

I like to toss him up and down
A heavy cat weighs half a Crown
With a hey ho diddle my cat Brown.

I like to pinch him on the sly
When nobody is passing by
With a hey ho diddle my cat Fry.

I like to ruffle up his pride
And watch him skip and turn aside
With a hey ho diddle my cat Hyde.

Hey Brown and Fry and Hyde my cats
That sit on tombstones for your mats.

[Chris Childers]

This is a great collection. Thanks so much to everybody for posting! & if you have more, by all means, keep them coming.

Here's another from Wilbur.

The Undead

Even as children they were late sleepers,
Preferring their dreams, even when quick with monsters,
To the world with all its breakable toys,
Its compacts with the dying;

From the stretched arms of withered trees
They turned, fearing contagion of the mortal,
And even under the plums of summer
Drifted like winter moons.

Secret, unfriendly, pale, possessed
Of the one wish, the thirst for mere survival,
They came, as all extremists do
In time, to a sort of grandeur:

Now, to their Balkan battlements
Above the vulgar town of their first lives,
They rise at the moon's rising. Strange
That their utter self-concern

Should, in the end, have left them selfless:
Mirrors fail to perceive them as they float
Through the great hall and up the staircase;
Nor are the cobwebs broken.

Into the pallid night emerging,
Wrapped in their flapping capes, routinely maddened
By a wolf's cry, they stand for a moment
Stoking the mind's eye

With lewd thoughts of the pressed flowers
And bric-a-brac of rooms with something to lose,--
Of love-dismembered dolls, and children
Buried in quilted sleep.

Then they are off in a negative frenzy,
Their black shapes cropped into sudden bats
That swarm, burst, and are gone. Thinking
Of a thrush cold in the leaves

Who has sung his few summers truly,
Or an old scholar resting his eyes at last,
We cannot be much impressed with vampires,
Colorful though they are;

Nevertheless, their pain is real,
And requires our pity. Think how sad it must be
To thirst always for a scorned elixir,
The salt quotidian blood

Which, if mistrusted, has no savor;
To prey on life forever and not possess it,
As rock-hollows, tide after tide,
Glassily strand the sea.

And apropos of Jim's recent explanatory post on GT, this from Michael Longley:

Hallowe'en

It is Hallowe'en. Turnip Head
Will soon be given his face,
A slit, two triangles, a hole.
His brains litter the table top.
A candle stub will be his soul.

[This message has been edited by Chris Childers (edited October 19, 2006).]

[Duncan Gillies MacLaurin]

Another thread that has Halloween poems:
http://p197.ezboard.com/fthesonnetboardsonnetwriting.showMessage?topicID=4 258.topic

Duncan