Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, "An' thou was stark.
When first I gaed to woo my Jenny,
Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie;
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie,
Ye ne'er was donsie;
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' canie,
An' unco sonsie.
That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride,
When ye bure hame my bonie bride;
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride
Wi' maiden air!
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide
For sic a pair.
Though now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble,
An' wintle like a samount-coble,
That day ye was a jinker noble,
For heels an' win'!
An' ran them till they a' did wauble,
Far, far behin'.
When thou an' I were young an' skeigh,
An' stable meals at fairs were dreigh,
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh,
An' tak the road!
Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh,
When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow
We took the road ay like a swallow;
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow,
For pith an' speed;
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow
Where'er thou 'gaed.
The sma', droop-rumpl't, hunter-cattle,
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle;
But sax Scotch miles, thou try't their mettle,
An' gar't them whaizle!
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle
O' saugh or hazel.
Thou was a noble fittie-lan',
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn!
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun,
On guid March weather,
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han',
For days thegither.
Thou never braindg't, an' fech't, an' fliskit,
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit,
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket,
Wi' pith and pow'r,
Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket,
An' slypet owre.
When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep, An' threaten'd labor back to keep,
I gied thy cog a wee bit heap
Aboon the timmer;
I kenn'd my Maggie wad na sleep
For that, or simmer.
In cart or car thou never restit;
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac'd it;
Thou never lap, and sten't and breastit,
Then stood to blaw;
But just thy step a wee thing hastit,
Thou snoov't awa.
My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a';
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw;
Forbye sax mae, I've sell't awa,
That thou hast nurst;
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, The vera warst.
Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought
An' wi' the weary warl' fought!
An' monie an anxious day, I thought
We wad be beat
Yet here to crazy age we're brought,
Wi' something yet.
An' think na, my auld trusty servan',
That now, perhaps, thou's less deservin'
An' thy auld days may end in starvin',
For my last fou,
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane
Laid by for you.
We've worn to crazy years thegither;
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither;
Wi' tentie care I'll fit thy tether
To some hain'd rig,
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather
Wi' sma' fatigue.
THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR
MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE
AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE.
As Mailie an' her lambs thegither,
Where 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 came 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 could nae mend it!
He gaped wide, but naething spak,
At length poor Mailie silence brak.
"O thou, whase lamentable face,
Appears to mourn my wofu' 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;
* A neighbor herd-callan.
So may his flock increase, an' grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'!
"Tell him he was a master kin',
An' ay 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 feed themsel❜;
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn,
Wi' teats o' hay, an' rips o' corn.
"An' may they never learn the gaets Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets! To slink thro' slaps, an' reve, an' steal, At stacks o' peas, or stocks o' kail. So may they, like their great forbears, For monie 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 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 brutem.
"An' niest my yowie, silly thing. Gude keep thee frae a tether-string.
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