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, 'O thou, whase lamentable face 'Tell him, if e'er again he keep 'Tell him, he was a Master kin', An' ay 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' teats o' hay an' ripps o' corn. 'An' may they never learn the gaets 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 monie a year come thro' the sheers; 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! POOR MAILIE'S LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose, Past a' remead; It's no the loss o' warl's gear, 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. B ELEGY. Or, if he wanders up the howe, She was nae get o' moorland tips, Wae worth the man wha first did shape O, a' ye Bards on bonie Doon! His heart will never get aboon! D Thoughts, words, and deeds, the Statute blames with reason; But surely DREAMS were ne'er indicted Treason. [On reading, in the public papers, the Laureate's Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the Birth-day Levee; and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following ADDRESS.] 'Tis very true, my sovereign King, My skill may weel be doubted: But Facts are cheels that winna ding, An' downa be disputed: Your Royal nest, beneath your wing, Is e'en right reft an' clouted, And now the third part of the string, An' less, will gang about it Than did ae day. Far be't frae me that I aspire Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, Your sair taxation does her fleece Till she has scarce a tester; Or, faith! I fear that with the geese, I' the craft some day. |