The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie. 59 THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, Wi' glowrin' een, an' lifted han's, 'O thou, whase lamentable face : 'Tell him, if e'er again he keep 10 20 30 'An' may they never learn the gates Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal, An' bairns greet for them when they're dead. O bid him breed him up wi' care! 'An' neist 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, 'Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail To tell my master a' my tale; An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blether.' This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, An' closed her een amang the dead! 40 50 бо 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 The mourning weed: He's lost a friend and neibor dear In Mailie dead. Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him; A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him I wat she was a sheep o' sense, Thro' thievish greed. Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence Or, if he wanders up the howe, Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, An' down the briny pearls rowe For Mailie dead. She was nae get o' moorland tups, For her forbears were brought in ships A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 10 20 30 Wae worth the man wha first did shape An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape O a' ye bards on bonnie Doon! His heart will never get aboon His Mailie dead! DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. SOME books are lies frae end to end, The Clachan yill had made me canty, I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent aye To free the ditches; An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes kent aye Frae ghaists an' witches. The rising moon began to glowre But whether she had three or four I cou'd na tell. I was come round about the hill, To keep me sicker; I there wi' Something did forgather, Clear-dangling, hang; A three-tae'd leister on the ither Lay large an' lang. Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, For fient à wame it had ava; 20 30 And then its shanks, 40 As cheeks o' branks. They were as thin, as sharp an' sma' 'Guid-een,' quo' I; 'Friend! hae ye been mawin, When ither folk are busy sawin?' It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan', But naething spak; Will ye go back?' At length says I, 'Friend, wh'are ye gaun? It spak right howe-'My name is Death, But tent me, billie: I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith, See, there's a gully!' 50 |