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My dying words attentive hear,
Tell him, if e'er again he keep
• Tell him, he was a master kin',
«(, bid him save their harmless lives,
An' may they never learn the gaets Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets! To slink thro' siaps, 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,
• An' niest.my yowie, silly thing,
And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, I lea'e
blessin wi' you baith: An' when you think upo' your mither, Mind to be kin' to ane anither.
Now, honest Hughoe, dinna fail
This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, And closed her een amang the dead.
POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY.
LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose,
Past a' remead;
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,
cinta In Mailie dead.
Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him;
She ran wi' speed : Vi
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
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
For Mailie dead.
She was no get o' moorland tips,
Frae yont the Tweed: A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips
Than Mailie dead.
Vae worth the man wha first did shape That vile, wanchancie thing-a rape! It makes guid fellows girn an' gape,
Wi' chokin dread; An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape,
For Mailie dead.
O, 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.
To J. $****
Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul !
Dear S****, the sleest, paukie thief,
Owre human hearts;
Against your arts.
For me, I swear by sun an' moon,
Just gaun to see you :
That auld capricious carlin, Nature, To mak amends for scrimpit stature, She's turn’d you aff, a human creature
On her first plan, And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature,
She's wrote, the Man..