This is my telling or alternative version of ‘Tam O’Shanter’,

the poem by Robert Burns (1790).

Instead there’s much more about Nannie,

the beautiful witch who chases him and Tam’s horse Meg.

Always a twist in the tale!

“NANNIE AND THE BEAST”

Nannie Dee was fair of face,

lithe and quick and full of grace.

She lived in woods of oak and ash,

The streams and rivers she did splash.

Free and wild, could take her pick

Of anybody worth her wick.

But she would not, preferred instead

To take no one to her bed.

In leaves and feathers, inside an oak,

She curls to sleep until she’s woke.

In moonlit glades she’ll dance all night,

With friends, they’ll laugh, soaring bright.

On high boughs they leap and fly,

Of nature’s wondrous love they cry!

Dressed in garlands, sark and horn,

They danced and sang till early morn.

When up comes Tam O (bloody) Shanter,

From the town, he did canter.

Smelling foul of whisky splashes,

He curses Meg and gives her lashes.

“Take me home!” he shouts and kicks,

Poor Meg (his mare) can’t take these licks,

And though she tries to bare his weight,

Fists and stick, her wobbling gait.

(Meg, Tam’s mare)

She knows the way, she knows it well,

But really this is bloody hell.

As nature knows, all paths the same,

Will lead you to its final hame.

With liquor breath he whips the reins,

And up she rears, trips and strains.

He falls, aghast, to crashing stones,

But keeps intact his drunken bones.

As Meg bunches up her legs,

Leaves behind the sodden dregs.

As Meg goes rushing through the lanes,

Towards the firelight, feels her pains.

Into the circle bursts the mare

And all within it stop to stare.

Gentle fingers softly weeps,

On Meg she touches, claret seeps.

Tells of cruelty, harsh and deep,

Tam O Shanter, bloody creep!

Then who comes stumbling into view,

The man is gasping, he’s gonna spew.

He’s shrieking, “Meg! You filthy whore!”

He vents his wrath and let’s it pour.

(Nannie chants)

“Now gentle folk gather round,

Of heart and hearth well make a mound,

And put you in without a sound,

To lie upon the cold hard ground.

To rot, sweet rot, you’ll not be found!”

On hearing this Tam’s brain snaps quick,

These brazen witches played a trick.

Devils all and heathens too,

They’ve been at that mushroom brew.

Tam leers at Nannie, scanty lad,

And sees himself a strappin lad.

A hero to bow down and greet,

To cook his meals and roast his meat.

His eyes, all gluey, to her bust,

Bothers not to hide his lust,

and gloating with a twitchy eye says,

“How about it, you and I?

We’ll go down at yonder brook,

find ourselves a quiet nook.”

Nannie laughs and strokes her hair,

Then looks upon the broken mare.

“If I were you I’d start a runnin,

cos such Doom at you is comin!

See my axe so sharply gleaming,

Of this day, I’ve been dreaming!”

Moons ago my sister walked,

In woods like these, of you she talked.

A bed of thorns, your crushing weight,

A tale of woe, I love to hate.

You took her then and left her broken,

Vile and vicious words were spoken.

That kind of wound that never closes,

Raw forever, poison posies.

She left us then, her heart was crushed

And into darkness, river rushed.

And so dear Tam, is this your story?

Gallant hero of beds so gory.

Nannie stands, her fists so tight,

Run Tam, run, too many to fight.

Horned devils chase him, screeching death,

Hunted now with baited breath.

Over the river where Jenny died,

Gone forever they all cried.

Nannies hair flying out behind,

Her intent, his bones to grind.

Her axe swinging, whispers near,

His eyes white with stinging fear.

Dear Nannie, with her hands on throat,

Will not take this stinking goat.

For she is but a killer not,

Nor stain her hands with this old grot.

She’ll let him live to drink again,

But curse his soul, twelve score and ten.

To hide his deeds, Ol Tam Oh Shanter,

With his cunning, winning banter,

Finds a mucky shredded tail

from knackers yard, the holy-grail.

He claims it’s Megs, shorn from her rump,

Cut by Nannie, a grisly stump.

Now Nannie lives in peace, a woman.

Rides the Beast and like a shaman,

Holds the key, a shining beacon.

But Tam O Shanter, flesh a rotting,

Nurses whisky, bruises clotting,

Shouting from his darkened corner,

Drowning spirits, he will scorn her.

Who can tell what’s true or fake?

A spinning yarn can make or break.

Gathering pace a rolling stone,

Can gently bump or crack a bone.

Now know the truth of twisted tales,

And if said story stands or fails.

by Caroline Bury 2021.