By this, the sun was out o' sight, WINTER: A DIRGE. THE wintry west extends his blast, Or the stormy north sends driving forth While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day. "The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast *," The joyless winter-day, Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May: The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fates resembles mine. Thou power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, Because they are Thy Will! Then all I want (O, do thou grant This one request of mine!), Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, * Dr. Young. THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. An unco mournfu' Tale. As Mailie and her lambs thegither, Wi' glowrin een, and lifted han's, "O thou, whase lamentable face "Tell him, if e're again he keep "Tell him, he was a Master kin’, "O, bid him save their harmless lives, * A neighbour herd- allan. "And may they never learn the gaets Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets! To slink thro' slaps, and reave and steal And bairns greet for them when they're dead. "My poor toop-lamb, my son and heir, To pit some havins in his breast; "And neist, my yowie, silly thing, "And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, "Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail This said, poor Mallie turn'd her head, POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose, Past a' remead; The last sad cape-stane of his woes; Poor Mailie's dead! It's no the loss o' warld's gear The mourning weed; He's lot a friend and neebor dear In Mailie dead. Thro' a' the town she trotted by him; I wot she was a sheep o' sense, Thro' thievish greed; Our bardle, lanely, keeps the spence Sin' Mailie's dead. Or, if he wanders up the howe, Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, For bits o' bread; And down the briny pearls rowe For Mailie dead. She was nae get o' muirland tips, For her forbears were brought in ships Frae yont the Tweed! A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips Than Mailie's dead. Wae worth the man wha first did shape Wi' chokin' dread; O, a' ye bards on bonny Doon! O' Robin's reed! His heart will never get aboon His Mailie dead. FIRST EPISTLE TO DAVIE*, A BROTHER POET. January, 1784. WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, And hing us owre the ingle, I set me down to pass the time, While frosty winds blaw in the drift, I grudge a wee the great folk's gift, But hanker and canker To see their cursed pride. It's hardly in a body's power But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, To lie in kilns and barns at e'en, When banes are crazed, and blude is thin, Is, doubtless, great distress! Yet then content could ma' us blest; Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste * David Sillar, schoolmaster, one of the club at Tarbolton, and author of a volume of Poems in Scottish dialect. + Ramsay. |