The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. {148f}
She prophesied that, late or soon,
Thou wouldst be found deep drowned in Doon!
Or catched wi' warlocks i' the mirk, {148a}
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet {148b}
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthened, 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, {148c}
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; {148d}
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 and 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 didna mind the storm a whistle.