THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF
POOR MAILIE,
THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE.
An unco mournfu' Tale.
As Mailie an' her lambs thegither,
Were ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An' owre she warsled in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc he cam 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 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,
Oh, 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, an' grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'!
'Tell him, he was a master kin',
An' aye was guid to me and mine;
An' now my dying charge I gi'e him,
My helpless lambs I trus them wi' him.
'Oh, bid him save their harmless lives
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives!
But gi'e 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 slink through 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 through the sheers: So wives will gi'e them bits o' bread,
An' bairns greet for them when they're dead.
'My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir,
Oh, 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!
Oh, 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'!
'An' 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 cursed tether,
An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blether.
This said, poor Mailie turned her head,
And 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 a close,
The last sad cape-stane of his woes:
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
Through 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 came 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
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence
Sin' Mailie's dead.
Or, if he wanders 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
She was nae get o' moorland tips,
Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips:
For her forbears were brought in ships
Fra yont the Tweed:
A bonnier fleesh ne'er crossed the clips
Than Mailie dead.
Wae worth the man wha first did shape
That vile wanchancie thing-a rape!
It maks guid fellows grin an' gape,
Wi' chokin' dread;
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape
Oh, 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 dead.
THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MARE
ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED RIPP OF CORN
TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR.
A GUID New Year I wish thee, Maggie!
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie:
Though thou's howe-backit now and knaggie,
I've seen the day
Thou could hae gean like ony staggie
Out-owre the lay.
Though now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy,
An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy,
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, an' glaizie,
A bonny grey:
He should been tight that daur't to raize thee
Ance in a day.
Thou ance was i' the foremost rank,
A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank,
An' set weel down a shapely shank
As e'er tread yird;
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank
Like onie bird.
It's now some nine-an'-twenty year
Sin' thou was my guid father's meere;
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear,
Though 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:
Though ye was trickie, slee, an' funnie,
Ye ne'er was donsie ;
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie,
An' unco sonsie.
That day ye pranced wi' muckle pride,
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride:
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride,
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