The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie. 59

THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE.

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither,
Was ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An' owre she warsled in the ditch;
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc he cam doytin by.

Wi' glowrin' een, an' lifted han's,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, wae's my heart! he could na mend it!
He gaped wide, but naething spak;
At length poor Mailie silence brak:-

'O thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woefu' case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An' bear them to my Master dear.

:

'Tell him, if e'er again he keep
As muckle gear as buy a sheep,—
O bid him never tie them mair
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair!
But ca' them out to park or hill,
An' let them wander at their will;
So may his flock increase, an' grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'!
'Tell him he was a Master kin',
An' aye was guid to me an' mine;
An' now my dying charge I gie him,
My helpless lambs, I trust them wi' him.
'O bid him save their harmless lives
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives!
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill,
Till they be fit to fend themsel:
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn,
Wi' teats o' hay an' ripps o' corn.

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'An' may they never learn the gates Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets

To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal,
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail.
So may they, like their great forbears,
For mony a year come thro' the shears;
So wives will gie them bits o' bread,

An' bairns greet for them when they're dead.
'My poor tup-lamb, my son an' heir,

O bid him breed him up wi' care!
An', if he live to be a beast,
To pit some havins in his breast!
An' warn him, what I winna name,
To stay content wi' yowes at hame;
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots,
Like ither menseless graceless brutes.

'An' neist my yowie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether string!
O may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi' ony blastit moorland tup;
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 kind to ane anither.

'Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail

To tell my master a' my tale;
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' closed her een amang the dead!

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POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY.

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

Past a' remead;

The last sad cape-stane of his woes

Poor Mailie's dead!

It's no 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 neibor dear

In Mailie dead.

Thro' a' the toun 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.

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 dead.

She was nae get o' moorland tups,
Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips;

For her forbears were brought in ships
Frae yont the Tweed:

A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips
Than Mailie's, dead.

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Wae worth the man wha first did shape
That vile wanchancie thing-a rape!
It maks guid fellows girn an' gape,
Wi' chokin' dread;

An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape
For Mailie dead.

O a' ye bards on bonnie 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 dead!

DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK.

SOME books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn'd:
Ev'n ministers, they hae been kenn'd,

The Clachan yill had made me canty,
I wasna fou, but just had plenty;

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent aye

To free the ditches;

An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes kent aye

Frae ghaists an' witches.

The rising moon began to glowre
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre:
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r,
I set mysel;

But whether she had three or four

I cou'd na tell.

I was come round about the hill,
And todlin' down on Willie's mill,
Setting my staff, wi' a' my skill,

To keep me sicker;
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will,
I took a bicker.

I there wi' Something did forgather,
That pat me in an eerie swither;
An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther,

Clear-dangling, hang;

A three-tae'd leister on the ither

Lay large an' lang.

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa,
The queerest shape that e'er I saw,

For fient à wame it had ava;

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And then its shanks,

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As cheeks o' branks.

They were as thin, as sharp an' sma'

'Guid-een,' quo' I; 'Friend! hae ye been mawin, When ither folk are busy sawin?'

It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan',

But naething spak;

Will ye go back?'

At length says I, 'Friend, wh'are ye gaun?

It spak right howe-'My name is Death,
But be na fley'd.'-Quoth I, Guid faith,
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath;

But tent me, billie:

I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith,

See, there's a gully!'

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