An' warn him, what I winna name,
To stay content wi' yowes' at hame;
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots2
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.
"An' niest my yowie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether string!
Oh, may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi' onie blastit,' moorland toop;
But ay keep mind to moop' an' mell1
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 kin' to ane anither.
"Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail
To tell my Master a' my tale;
An' bid him burn this curséd tether,
An' for thy pains, thou 's get my blether.""
This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head,
An' closed her een" amang the dead.
POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY.
LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose,
Wi' saut1s tears trickling down your nose;
Our Bardie's fate is at a close,
The last sad cap-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 neebor dear,
In Mailie dead.
Thro' a' the town she trotted by him;
A lang half mile she could descry him;
1 Ewes.-2 Hoofs.-3 Ill-bred.-4 Next.-5 God.-6 To meet.-7 Blasted.Ram.-9 To nibble as a sheep.-10 Meddle.-11 Bladder.-12 Eyes-13 Salt. 4 Remedy.-15 Cope-stone, or top-stone.-16 Worn with grief.
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 herself wi' mense:1
I'll say 't, she never brak a fence
Thro' thievish greed;"
Our Bardie, lanely, keeps the spence3
Sin' Mailie's dead.
Or, if he wanders up the howe,*
Her living image in her yowe
Comes bleating to him, o'er the knowe,
For bits o' bread;
An' down the briny pearls rowe
For Mailie dead.
She was nae get o' moorland tips,"
Wi' tauted 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 wanchancie1 thing-a rape!"
It maks guid fellows girn" an' gape,
Wi' chokin' dread;
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape,
For Mailie dead.
Oh, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon!
An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune!
Come, join the melancholious croon13
O' Robin's reed!
His heart will never get aboon
His Mailie dead!
1 Decency.-2 Greediness.-3 The country parlor.-4 A hollow, or dell.• Roll.- Ram.-7 Matted fleece.-8 Progenitors.-9 Fleece.-10 Unlucky.—
11 Rope.-12 To twist the features in agony.-13 A hollow moan.
THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER,1
To the noble Duke of Athole.
My Lord, I know your noble ear
Woe ne'er assails in vain;
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear
Your humble slave complain,
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams,
In flaming summer-pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.
The lightly-jumping glowrin" trouts,
That thro' my waters play,
If, in their random, wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
I'm scorching up so shallow,
They're left the whit'ning stanes amang,
In grasping death to wallow.
Last day I grat3 wi' spite and teen,*
As Poet Burns came by,
That, to a Bard, I should be seen
Wi' half my channel dry:
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,
É'en as I was he shor'd' me;
But had I in my glory been,
He, kneeling, wad adored me.
Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,
In twisting strength I rin;
There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild-roaring o'er a linn;"
Enjoying large each spring and well,
As Nature gave them me,
I am, altho' I say 't mysel,
Worth gaun' a mile to see.
1 Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; but the effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs.
2 Staring. Wept.-4 Grief, sorrow.—5 Offered.—6 A precipice, or waterfall.-7 Going.
Would then my noble master please
To grant my highest wishes,
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees,
And bonnie spreading bushes;
Delighted doubly then, my Lord,
You'll wander on my banks,
And listen monie a grateful bird
Return you tuneful thanks.
The sober lav'rock' warbling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire;
The gowdspink, music's gayest child,
Shall sweetly join the choir:
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear,
The mavis mild and mellow;
The robin pensive autumn cheer,
In all her locks of yellow:
This, too, a covert shall insure,
To shield them from the storm;
And coward maukin' sleep secure,
Low in her grassy form:
Here shall the shepherd make his seat,
To weave his crown of flowers;
Or find a shelt'ring, safe retreat,
From prone descending showers.
And here, by sweet, endearing stealth,
Shall meet the loving pair,
Despising worlds with all their wealth,
As empty, idle care.
The flowers shall vie in all their charms,
The hour of heaven to grace,
And birks extend their fragrant arms,
To screen the dear embrace.
Here haply too, at vernal dawn,
Some musing Bard may stray,
And eye the smoking dewy lawn,
And misty mountain, gray;
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam,
Mild-check'ring thro' the trees,
1 Lark.-2 Goldfinch.-3 Linnet.-4 Thrush.-5 The hare.- Birch-trees
Rave to my darkly dashing stream,
Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.
Let lofty firs and ashes cool
My lowly banks o'erspread,
And view, deep-bending in the pool,
Their shadows' wat'ry bed:
Let fragrant birks,' in woodbines drest,
My craggy cliffs adorn;
And for the little songster's nest,
The close embow'ring thorn.
So may old Scotia's darling hope,
Your little angel band,
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop
Their honor'd native land!
So may, thro' Albion's farthest ken,
To social-flowing glasses,
The grace be-"Athole's honest men,
And Athole's bonnie lasses!"
THE BRIGS2 OF AYR.
Inscribed to J. Ballantyne, Esq., Ayr.
THE simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough,
Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough;
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn-bush;
The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill,
Or deep-toned plovers, gray, wild whistling o'er the hill.
Shall he, nursed in the peasant's lowly shed,
To hardy Independence bravely bred,
By early Poverty to hardship steel'd,
And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's field;
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes?
Or labor hard the panegyric close,
With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose?
No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,
And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings,
1 Birch-trees.-2 Bridges.
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