POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S PET YOWE.

An' niest, my yowie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether string!
O! may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop;
But ay keep mind to moop an' mell,
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel!

And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath,

I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith:

An' when you think upo' your Mither,

Mind to be kin' to ane anither.

Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail
my Master a' my tale;

To tell

An' bid him burn this cursed tether,
An' for thy pains, thou'se get my blether.'

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, An' clos'd her een amang the dead.

POOR MAILIE'S

ELEGY.

LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose; Our Bardie's fate is at a close,

Past a remead;

The last sad cap-stane of his woes;

Poor Mailie's dead!

It's nae the loss o' warl's gear, That could sae bitter draw the tear, Or mak our Bardie, dowie, wear

The mourning weed:

He's lost a friend and neebor dear,

In Mailie dead.

Thro' a' the town she trotted by him; A lang half-mile she could descry him; Wi' kindly bleat when she did spy him; She ran wi' speed:

A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, Than Mailie dead

POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY.

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, An' could behave hersel wi' mense: I'll say't, she never brak a fence,

Thro' thievish greed..

Our Bardie lanely keeps the Spence,

Sin' Mailie's dead..

Or, if he wanders up the howe,

Her living image in her yowe,

Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe,.

For bits o' bread;

An' down the briny pearls rowe

For Mailie's dead...

She was nae get o' moorland tips, Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips:

For her forbears were brought in ships

Frae yont the Tweed;

A bonier fleesk ne'er cross'd the clips
Than Mailie dead.

Wae worth the man wha first did shape,

That vile, wanchancie thing-a rape!

It maks guid fellows girn an' gape,

Wi' chokin dread;

POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY.

An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, al

For Mailie dead. Hugo b

0, a' ye

Bards on bonie Doon!

An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune!
Come, join the melancholious croon

O' Robin's reed!

His heart will never get aboon!

His Mailie's dead!

THE

ORDINATION.

For sense they little owe to frugal Heav'n— To please the Mob, they hide the little giv'n.

K**

I.

********* Wabsters fidge an' claw, An' pour your creeshie nations;

An'

ye

wha leather rax an' draw,

Of a' denominations;

Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a'
An' there tak up your stations;

Then aff to B-gh's in a raw,
An' pour divine libations

For joy this day.

II.

Curst Common-sense, that imp o h-ll,

Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder: (39)

But O******* aft made her yell,

An' R***** sair misca'd her;