Aboon the timmer :w
I kenn'd my Maggie wad na sleep For that, or simmer.*
In cart or car thou never reestit ;y
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac'd it: Thou never lap, and stent, and breastit, Then stood to blaw;
But just thy step a wee thing hastit,d Thou snoov'te awa.
My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a';f Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw: Forbye sax mae I've sell't awa',g
That thou hast nurst:
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa'h The vera warst.
Monie a sair dargi we twa hae wrought, An' wi' the weary warl' fought! An' monie an anxious day I thought We wad be beat!
Yet here to crazy age we 're brought Wi' something yet.
An' think na', my auld trusty servan', That now perhaps thou 's less deservin', An' thy auld days may end in starvin' For my last fou,k
A heapet stimpurt, I'll reserve ane Laid by for you.
We've worn to crazy years thegither; We'll toyte" about wi' ane anither;
w Above the brim.
y Stood restive.
@ Leaped. b Reared.
2 Steepest hill. Sprung up, or forward. e Went smoothly.
f All the team belonging to my plough are of hy brood.
g Besides six more w ich I have sold.
h Thirteen pounds and two-perhaps fifteen pounds is here meant, as the Poet praises the goodness of Maggie's stock.
k My last drinking bout. ¿ Heaped. m 1 ne eighth part of a bushel.
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether,
To some hain'de rig,
Whare ye may nobly raxa your leather, Wi' sma' fatigue.
THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE
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 warsl'dt in the ditch: There, groaning, dying, she did lie, When Hughoc" he came doytin'" 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',
p Spared. q Stretch. r Hoof. s Did cast. t Wrestled, or fell struggling. u A neebor herd callan. w Stupidly.
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 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 gaets 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 greete 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 havinse 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 menselessk, graceless brutes. An' niest my yowie, silly thing, Gudem keep thee frae a tether string! O, may thou ne'er forgather" up Wi' onie blastit, moorland toop ;P
t ay keep mind to moops an' mell
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel!
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 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 turn'd her head, An' clos'd her een' amang the dead.
POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY.
LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' saut" tears trickling down your nose; Our Bardie's fate is at a close,
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, 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.
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 wanchanciel thing-a rape!k It maks 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 croonm O' Robin's reed!
His heart will never get aboon
His Mailie dead!
THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER,*
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. e Ram. f Matted fleece. g Progenitors. h Fleece. i Unlucky. k Rope To 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.
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