I was bred to the Plough, and am independent. come to claim the common Scottish name with you, my illustrious Countrymen; and to tell the world that I glory in the title.-I come to congratulate my Country, that the blood of her ancient heroes still runs uncontaminated; and that from your courage, knowledge, and public spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and liberty.-In the last place, I come to proffer my warmest wishes to the Great Fountain of Honour, the Monarch of the Universe, for your welfare and happiness.

When you go forth to waken the Echoes, in the ancient and favourite amusement of your forefathers, may Pleasure ever be of your party; and may Social joy await your return! When harassed in courts or camps with the justlings of bad men and bad measures, may the honest consciousness of injured Worth attend your return to your native Seats; and may Domestic Happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your gates! May Corruption shrink at your kindling indignant glance; and may tyranny in the Ruler and licentiousness in the People equally find you an inexorable foe!

I have the honour to be,

With the sincerest gratitude and highest respect, My Lords and Gentlemen,

Your most devoted humble servant,

ROBERT BURNS.

EDINBURGH, April 4, 1787.

POEMS OF

ROBERT BURNS

THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS
OF POOR MAILIE

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither,
Was 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, and lifted han's
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, wae's my heart! he could na 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—

A

Mailie's mis-hap

Mailie's

dying charge

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:
his flock increase, an' grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'!

So

may

"Tell him, he was a Master kin',
An' aye 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 fend themsel';
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn,
Wi' taets o' hay an' ripps 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 mony 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 brutes.

"An' neist, 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'!

"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,
An' closed 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

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,

and sad decease

The pet ewe's merits

Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear

The mourning weed:

He's lost a friend an' neebor dear
In Mailie dead.

Thro' a' the town 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.

Her livin image in her yowe

Comes bleating till 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' tauted ket, an' hairy hips;

For her forbears were brought in ships,

Frae 'yont the Tweed.

A bonier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips

Than Mailie's dead.

Wae worth the man wha first did shape

That vile, wanchancie thing-a raip!