Tam O’Shanter show with credits

Tam O’Shanter: 

Tam O’Shanter By Robert Burns

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When the peddlers leave the streets, And thirsty neighbors, neighbors meet; As market days are growing late, And people begin to take the road home, While we sit drinking beer and ale, And getting drunk and very happy, We don’t think of the long Scots miles, The marshes, rivers, steps and stiles, That lie between us and our home, Where sits our angry, moody wife, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath, to keep it warm.

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This truth finds honest Thomas of Shanter, As he from Ayr one night did canter; (Old Ayr, which never a town surpasses, For honest men and pretty girls.) Oh Tom, had you but been so wise, As to have taken your own wife Kate’s advice!

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She told you well you were good for nothing, A chattering, babbling, drunken boaster, That from November until October, Each market day you were not sober; She prophesied, that, late or soon, You would be found deep drowned in Doon , Or caught by warlocks in the gloom, By Alloway’s old haunted church.

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Ah! Gentle girls, it makes me cry, To think how many counsels sweet, How much long and wise advice The husband from the wife despises!

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But To Our Tale…..

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One market night, Tom was seated perfectly right, Next to a fireplace, blazing finely, With foaming ales, that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Cobbler John, His ancient, trusted, thirsty friend; Tom loved him like his own brother,

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They had been drunk for weeks together. The night drove on with sound and clatter, And every ale was tasting better; The landlady and Tom grew gracious, With secret favors, sweet and precious; The Cobbler told his dirtiest jokes; The landlord’s laugh was a ready chorus: Outside, the storm might roar and rustle, Tom did not mind the storm a whistle.

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Kings may be blessed, but Tam was glorious, O’er all the ills of life victorious.

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But pleasures are like poppies spread : You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow fall on the river, A moment white - then melts forever, Or like the Aurora Borealis, That moves before you can point to it;

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Or like the rainbow’s lovely form, Vanishing amid the storm. No man can hold up time or tide, The hour approaches Tom must ride:

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That hour, of night’s black arch the keystone, That dreary hour Tom mounts his beast in And such a night he takes to the road in As never a poor sinner had been out in .

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The wind blew as if it had blown its last; The rattling showers rose on the blast; The quick moonbeams the darkness swallowed, Loud, deep and long the thunder bellowed: That night, a child could understand, The Devil had business on his hand.

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Well mounted on his grey mare, Meg, A better never lifted leg, Tom, drove on through mud and mire, Despising wind and rain and fire;

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Whilst holding fast his good blue bonnet, While crooning over some old Scots sonnet, Whilst glowering round with prudent care, Lest hobgoblins catch him unaware: Alloway’s Church was drawing near, Where ghosts and owls nightly cry.

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By this time he was across the ford, Where in the snow the gypsy smothered; And past the birch trees and big stone, Where drunken Charlie broke his neck bone; And through the thorns, and past the marker,

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Where hunters found the murdered child; And near the thorn, above the well, Where Mungo’s mother hung herself. Before him down pours all his floods; The doubling storm roars through the woods;

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The lightning flashes from pole to pole; Nearer and nearer the thunder rolls; When, glimmering through the groaning trees,

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Alloway’s Church seemed in a blaze, Through every hole, light beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

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Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn ! What dangers you can make us scorn! With beer, we fear no evil; With whisky, we’ll face the Devil The ales so swam in Tom’s head, Fair play, he didn’t care about the devil.

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But Maggie stood, right sore astonished, Till, by the heel and hand admonished, She ventured forward on the light; And, wow! Tom saw an incredible sight!

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Warlocks and witches in a dance: No cotillion, brand new from France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys , and reels. Put life and mettle in their heels. In a window seat in the east,

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There sat Old Nick, in shape of a beast; A shaggy dog, black, grim, and large, To give them music was his charge: He screwed the pipes and made them squeal,

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Till roof and rafters all did ring.

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Coffins stood round, like open presses, That showed the dead in their last dresses; And, by some devilish magic trick, Each in its cold hand held a light: By which heroic Tom was able To note upon the holy table ,

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A murderer’s bones, in gibbet-irons; Two span-long, small, unchristened babies; A thief newly cut from a rope - With his last gasp his mouth did gape; Five tomahawks with blood red-rusted; Five scimitars with murder crusted ;

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A garter which a babe had strangled; A knife a father’s throat had mangled – Whom his own son of life bereft - The grey-hairs yet stuck to the shaft;

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With more of horrible and awful, Which even to name would be unlawful.

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As Thomas stared, amazed, and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious; The piper loud and louder blew, The dancers quick and quicker flew, They reeled, they set, they crossed, they clicked, Till every witch sweated and steamed,

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And cast her rags to the floor, And tripped at it in her underskirts!

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Now Tom, O Tom! had these been queens, All plump and strapping in their teens! Their underskirts, instead of greasy flannel, Been snow-white seventeen hundred linen! -

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The trousers of mine, my only pair, That once were plush, of good blue hair, I would have given them off my buttocks For one blink of those pretty girls !

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But withered hags, old and droll, Ugly enough to wean a foal, Leaping and flinging on a stick, Its a wonder it didn’t turn Tom’s stomach!

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But Tom knew what was what well enough: There was one pretty witch of choice, That night enlisted in the corps,

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Her short underskirt, o’ Paisley cloth, That while a young lass she had worn, In longitude though very limited, It was her best, and she was proud. . . Ah! little knew your reverend grandmother,

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That skirt she bought for her little granddaughter, With two Scots pounds (it was all her riches), Would ever graced a dance of witches!

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But here my Tale must stoop and bow, Such words are far beyond her power; To sing how Nannie leaped and kicked (A supple youth she was, and strong); And how Tom stood like one bewitched, And thought his very eyes enriched; Even Satan glowered, and fidgeted full of lust,

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And jerked and blew with might and main; Till first one caper, then another, Tom lost his reason all together, And roars out :

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‘ Well done, that Short Skirt! ’

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And in an instant all was dark; And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied.

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As bees buzz out with angry wrath, When plundering herds assail their hive;

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As eager runs the market-crowd, When ‘ Catch the thief! resounds aloud. So Maggie runs, the witches follow,

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Ah, Tom! Ah, Tom! You will get your dues ! In hell they will roast you like a herring ! In vain your Kate awaits your coming ! Kate soon will be a woeful woman ! Now, do your speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stone of the bridge;

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There, you may toss your tale at them, A running stream they dare not cross! But before the key-stone she could make, Little tail she had to shake; For Nannie , far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie pressed,

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And flew at Tom with furious aim; But little was she Maggie’s mettle! One jump brought off her master whole, But left behind her own grey tail: The witch caught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

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Now, who this tale of truth shall read, Each man, and mother’s son, take heed:

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Whenever to drink you are inclined ,

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Or short skirts run in your mind,

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Think! The joys may cost you dear: Remember Tam O’Shanter’s Mare

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Slide Show By Robert Partin Narrated by John Cairney Produced By The Abilene Pipers Directed by Cecil B. DeMille Key Grip – Charles Rice Best Boy – Mark Izbrand Costumes by Sue Richardson Makeup by Makenah Hancock Gaffer – Murray McKay Copyright 2012