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Wi' tentieo care I'll flit thy tether,
To some hain'dP rig, Whare ye may nobly raxq your leather,
Wi' sma’ fatigue.
THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF
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 coosts a hitch,
An' owre she warslidt in the ditch :
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughocu he came doytin'w 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 wofu' case !
My dying words attentive hear,
And bear them to my Master dear.
• 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, and grow
To scores o' lambs, and packs o' woo’!
• Tell him he was a Master kin',
o Cautious. p Spared. Stretch. Hoof.
Did cast Wrestled, or fell struggling. u A neebor herd callan. w Stupidly.
* Staring eyes.
An? ay was guid to me and mine;
An' now my dying charge I gie him,
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him
* 0, bid him save their harmless lives,
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives !
But gie them good cow-milk their fill,
Till they be fit to fend themsel':
An' tent them duly, e'en and morn,
Wi' teats o' hay an’rips o'corn.
. An'may they never learn the gaetsa
Of ither vile wanrestfu’a pets ;
To slink thro’ slaps, an' reave, an' steal,
At stacks o' pease or stocks o' kail.
So may they, like their great forbears, d
For monie a year come thro' the shears ;
So wives will gie them bits o'bread,
An' bairns greet e for them when they're dead.
My poor tonp-lamh, my son an' heir,
O, bid him breed him up wi’ care !
An', if he live to be a beast,
To pit some havins8 in his breast !
An' warn him, what I winna name,
To stay content wi' yowesh at hame;
An' no to rin an' wear his clootsi
Like ither menseless", graceless brutes.
• An' niest' my yowie, silly thing, Gudem keep thee frae a tether string! 0, may thou ne'er forgather" up Wi'onie blastit,o moorland toop ;P
t ay keep mind to moop' an' mellr Wi’ sheep o' credit like thysel !
* And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, I lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith ;
z Manners. a Restless. b Gates. c Rove. d Forefathers. Weep.
Ram-lamb. 8 Good-manners. h Ewes. i Hoofs. k lil-bred.
m God. To meet. o Blasted.
q To nibble as a sheep.
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's get my blether.''
This said, poor Mailie furn’d her head,
An' clos'd her een amang the dead.
POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY.
Lament in rhyme, lament in prose,
Wi' sautų tears trickling down your nose ;
Our Bardie's fate is at a close,
Past a' remead;"
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, y 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 ;
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 ::
I'll say’t, she never brak a fence
Thro' thievish greed ;a.
Our Bardie, lanely, keeps the spenceb
Sin' Mailie 's dead.
& Bladder. t Eyes.
* Cope-stone, or top-stone.
Decency. a Greediness.
w Remedy y Worn with grief. The country parlour.
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 rowed
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 fleeshh ne'er cross'd the clips
Than Mailie dead.
Wae worth the man wha first did shape
That vile wanchancier thing—a rape
It maks guid fellows girn' an' gape,
Wi' chokin' dread;
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape,
For Mailie dead,
0, 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 HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR
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,
C A hollow, or dell. d Roll.
Matted fleece. & Progenitors.
h Fleece. i Unlucky k Rope 1 1o twist the features in agony.
m A hollow moan. * Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; but the effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs.
Phoebus' scorching beams,
In flaming summer-pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.
The lightly-jumping glowrin'n 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 grat° 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,
Ev'n as I was he shor'd4 me;
But had I in my glory been,
He, kneeling, wad ador'd 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 gauns a mile to see. Would then my noble master please
To grant my highest wishes, He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees,
And bonnie spreading bushes;
Suring, o Wept p Grief, sorrow. 9
Offered r A precipice or waterfall.