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, and grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs of woo' !

"Tell him he was a master kin',
An' ay was gude 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, and 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.

"An' may they never learn the gaets Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets! To sink 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 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 blather."

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head,
And clos'd her e'en amang the dead.

POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY.

[Burns, when he calls on the bards of Ayr and Doon to join in the lament for intimates that he regards himself as a poet. Hogg calls it a very elegant morsel says that it resembles too closely "The Ewie and the Crooked Horn," to be admi original: the shepherd might have remembered that they both resemble Sempill's and death of the Piper of Kilbarchan."]

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 of his woes;

Poor Mailie's dead.

It's no the loss of 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 wonders 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.

1 VARIATION.

She was nae get o' runted rams,

Wi' woo' like goats an' legs like trams;
She was the flower o' Fairlie lambs,
A famous breed!

Now Robin, greetin, chews the hams

O' 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's dead!

FIRST EPISTLE TO DAVIE,

A BROTHER POET.

[In the summer of 1784, Burns, while at work in the garden, repeated this Epistle to his brother Gilbert, who was much pleased with the performance, which he considered equal if not superior to some of Allan Ramsay's Epistles, and said if it were printed he had no doubt that it would be well received by people of taste.]

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,

And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,

In hamely westlin jingle.

While frosty winds blaw in the drift,

Ben to the chimla lug,

I grudge a wee the great folks' gift,
That live sae bien an' snug:

I tent less and want less

Their roomy fire-side;

But hanker and canker

To see their cursed pride.

It's hardly in a body's power

To keep, at times, frae being sour,

To see how things are shar'd;

How best o' chiels are whiles in want,

While coofs on countless thousands rant,

And ken na how to wair't;

But Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head,

Tho' we hae little gear,

We're fit to win our daily bread,

As lang's we're hale and fier:

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en

When banes are crazed, and bluid is thin, Is, doubtless, great distress!

Yet then content could make us blest; Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste

O' truest happiness.

The honest heart that's free frae a'

Intended fraud or guile,

However Fortune kick the ba',

Has ay some cause to smile:
And mind still, you'll find still,
A comfort this nae sma';
Nae mair then, we'll care then,
Nae farther we can fa'.

What tho', like commoners of air,
We wander out we know not where,

But either house or hall?

Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,

Are free alike to all.

In days when daisies deck the ground,
And blackbirds whistle clear,
With honest joy our hearts will bound,
To see the coming year:

On braes when we please, then,
We'll sit and sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme till't we'll time till't,
And sing't when we hae done.

It's no in titles nor in rank;

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,

To purchase peace and rest;

1 Ramsay.