THE

DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR

MAILIE,

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE.

An unco mournfu' Tale.

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither,
Were ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An' owre she warsl'd 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, waes my heart! he couldna 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'!

1. A neebor herd-callan.

'Tell him, he was a Master kin',
An' aye was guid to me and 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' rips o' corn.
'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 monie a year come thro' the sheers;
So wives will gie them bits o' bread,

An' bairns greet for them when they're dead.
My poor toop-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 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 aye keep mind to moop an' mell,
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel!

'An' 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 cape-stane o' 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 neebor 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 tips,
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 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;
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.

TO J. S**

Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul!
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society!
I owe thee much.-

DEAR S****, the sleest, paukie thief,
That e'er attempted stealth or rief,
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef

Owre human hearts;

For ne'er a bosom yet was prief

Against your arts,

For me, I swear by sun and moon,
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon,
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon

BLAIR.

Just gaun to see you;

An ev'ry ither pair that's done,

Mair taen I'm wi' you.

That auld capricious carlin, Nature,
To mak amends for scrimpit stature,
She's turn'd you aff, a human creature
On her first plan,

And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature,
She's wrote, the Man.

Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme,
My barmie noddle's working prime,
My fancie yerkit up sublime

Hae ye a

Wi' hasty summon : leisure-moment's time

To hear what's comin?