May Middleton's Tam Poem by Alexander Anderson

Frae the schulehoose that sat at the heid o' the green,
To the fit o' the toon where the smiddy was seen—
Frae the narrow close mooth to the hoose on the brae,
Where the weans at odd times met to scamper an' play—
Frae the heid o' the parish to a' the laigh boun',
In a word, tak' at ance the hale country-side roun',
Frae the laird to the joiner that cooper'd a tram,
A' had an ill word o' May Middleton's Tam.


He had gleg een, an' mooth that was aye on the gape,
But his face for sax months hadna lookit on saip;
An' Nature hersel' had supplied him wi' shoon,
Sae waukit he'd dee maist afore they wore dune.
His knees play'd bo-keek through a rive in his breeks,
For his mither lang syne had lost a' faith in steeks;
But he scamper'd aboot fu' o' glee as a lamb—
'Od, an awfu' ill plague was May Middleton's Tam.


The back o' his han' was as broon as a taid,
An', as he had grown since his jacket was made,
The half o' his airm to the elbow was bare,
An' a scrimpit bit sark half in tatters was there;
While, what wi' the dichtin' his nose noo and thaun,
The tae sleeve was bricht as the lid o' a can—
There was nae washin' day to mak' dirt tak' a dwam,
But wear on an' wear dune wi' May Middleton's Tam.


Had a stane been sent through ony window within
A mile frae his hoose, or some mischief been dune;
The mooth o' the pump stappit up, or a score,
Or the heid o' a man drawn wi' chalk on the door;
A deuk or a hen gotten deid, or a wean
Knockit into the siver when flowin' wi' rain—
'Wha could hae dune this?' An' the answer aye cam'—
'Deil tak' him, wha else but May Middleton's Tam!'


He stole a' the bools frae the rest o' the weans,
An' pelted the big anes wha fash'd him wi' stanes;
He knockit aff bonnets, he ran ahint gigs,
He climb'd up on cairts, an' he ran alang brigs;
He jaggit the cuddy o' big ragman Jock
Till the croons that it made nearly frichten'd the folk;
An' yet, at the schule, nane could say verse or psalm
Freer aff heart an' tongue than May Middleton's Tam.


He was heid o' a' ill baith at mornin' an' late,
Sae that maist o' the folk wish'd him oot o' the gate,
But Birky, the maister, wha keepit the schule,
Said, aye when they ca'd him a rascal an' fule—
'There is something in Tam, if ye just wait a wee,
That will mak' ye a' glower, ill an' a' though he be.'
But I wat Birky's faith was consider'd a sham,
For the deevil's ain bird was May Middleton's Tam.


He was twice carried hame wi' a cut in his heid,
Ony ithers but him 'twad hae streekit them deid;
But the eggs o' a corbie or piat to him
Were something worth while to risk life for an' limb.
He was catch'd by the miller gaun doon the mill race,
A' the hairm was a fricht, an' less dirt on the face;
An' thrice he was brocht half-droon'd oot o' the dam—
'Od, the hangman was sure o' May Middleton's Tam.


His mither, puir woman, did a' that she could
To keep him in boun's, as a richt mither should;
But ance ower the door, she was oot o' his thocht,
An' a crony gaun by he was ready for ocht.
Then bare-leggit weans at the door micht look oot
To get, in the by-gaun, a push or a cloot;
But they took to their heels wi' a jump like a ram—
They a' stood in fear o' May Middleton's Tam.


But ill as he was, he grew up stoot an' steive,
Braid shuider'd, big baned, an' a dawd o' a neive;
Then he wrocht noo an' thaun, when the simmer cam' roun',
Howin' turnips, or drivin' some nowte to the toon;
But as yet wark an' him werena like to agree,
A' his talk was 'boot sailors an' storms at the sea,
Till ae day he left withoot tears or a qualm,
An' the village was rid o' May Middleton's Tam.


Years gaed by, an' nae word cam' frae Tam, till at last
His mither hersel' thocht that a' hope was past,
When ae day the postman gaed in at the door—
A thing the douce neebours had ne'er ken'd afore;
But aye after that a blin' man micht hae seen
That her hoose an' hersel' were mair cheerfu' an' bien.
'Lod,' quo' ane, as she lean'd hersel' 'gainst the door jamb,
'Has ocht been sent hame by her ne'er-dae-weel Tam?'


But a greater surprise they were a' yet to get,
When the handy bit farm o' Whaupfields was to let;
Neebours ran into neebours wi' weans in their arm,
Cryin', 'Help us, May Middleton's Tam's got the farm;'
An' after awee, it was heard Tam himsel'
Wad be back in his ain native clachan to dwell.
He cam', an' the doors were as fu' as could cram
Wi' folk keen to look at May Middleton's Tam.


But losh! what a braw, strappin' fellow they saw,
Broon-faced, and a beard that was black as a craw;
Lang, lang did they glower, till the blacksmith said 'Fegs,
What a change since he broke wi' a stane Whaupey's legs.'
Here it cam' to his min' o' the wark on the farm,
Sae he added, 'But Tam never did ony harm.'
Then he ended by makin' a sort o' salaam
Doon the street to the hoose o' May Middleton's Tam.


But when ance Tam was into his farm, an' had made
A' things snod, an' his mither as mistress array'd,
He tea'd a' the neebors, and tellt them what wark
He had makin' a fortune that cost him much cark.
Then he turn'd roun' to Birky, the maister, wha sat
By his side, lookin' up as if prood aboot that,
An' said, clappin' his back, 'Here's your health in a dram,
For ye aye took the pairt o' May Middleton's Tam.'


An' frae that day to this ilka body speaks weel
O' Tam, while they praise his guid praties an' meal;
An' mithers, wha ance could hae seen his neck thrawn,
Gie him days at the hay when there's ower muckle mawn.
E'en the landlord himsel' comes an' cries, unco big,
'Here, boy, come an' haud Mr Middleton's gig.'
For since things took a turn, an' his guid fortune cam',
He is noo nae mair ken'd as May Middleton's Tam.