The Epitaph
Tam Samson’s weel-worn clay here lies Ye canting zealots, spare him! If honest worth in Heaven rise, Ye’ll mend or ye win near him.
Per Contra
Go, Fame, an’ canter like a filly Thro’ a’ the streets an’ neuks o’ Killie;3 Tell ev’ry social honest billie To cease his grievin’; For, yet unskaithed by Death’s gleg gullie. Tam Samson’s leevin’!