An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin, Some luckless hour will send him linkin, To your black pit; But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin, An' cheat you yet. But, fare you weel! auld Nickie-ben! Still hae a stake I'm wae to think upo' yon den, Ev'n for your sake! THE DEATH AND DYING WORds of POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted han's, A neibor herd-callan. He gaped wide, but naething spak ! O thou, whase lamentable face '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, an' grow To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'! 'Tell him, he was a Master kin', An' ay was guid to me and 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' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn. An' may they never learn the gacts 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, 'My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, To pit some havins in his breast! An' niest my yowie, silly thing, 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, This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, An' clos'd her een amang the dead. POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose, Past a' remead; The last sad cape-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 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 wanders up the howe, Her living image in her yowe, 1 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 bonier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 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, O, a' ye bards on bonie Doon! O' Robin's reed! His heart will never get aboon! His Mailie dead. |