Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
And owre she warsled in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc1 he cam doytin' by.

foot-loop

struggled

wa king stupidly

Wi' glowering een and lifted hands,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stands ;
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.

'Oh thou, whose lamentable face Appears to mourn my woefu' case! My dying words attentive hear, And bear them to my master dear.

6

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,
And let them wander at their will;
So

may his flock increase, and grow To scores o' lambs, and packs o' woo' !

staring

money

drive

1 A neighbor herd-callan. B.-In a copy of the poem in the poet's handwriting, possessed by Miss Grace Aiken, Ayı a more descriptive note is here given: "Hughoc was an odd, glowran, gapin' callan, about three-fourths as wise as other folk."

'Tell him he was a master kin',
And aye was guid to me and mine;
And now my dying charge I gie him
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him.

'Oh, bid him save their harmless lives
Frae dogs, and tods, and butchers' knives!
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill,
Till they be fit to fend themsel;
And tent them duly, e'en and morn,

Wi' teats o' hay, and ripps o' corn.

'And may they never learn the gaets

Of other vile, wanrestfu' pets;

provide for tend

handfuls

To slink through slaps, and reave and steal
At stacks o' peas, or stocks o' kail.

So may they, like their great forbears,
For mony a year come through the shears:
So wives will gie them bits o' bread,

ways

restless

gaps

ancestors

And bairns greet for them when they're dead.

'My poor toop-lamb, my son and heir, Oh, bid him breed him up wi' care; And if he live to be a beast,

To pit some havins in his breast!

And warn him, what I winna name,
To stay content wi' yowes at hame;
And no to rin and wear his cloots,
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.

manners

hoofs

senseless

And neist my yowie, silly thing,

Gude keep thee frae a tether string;
Oh, may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop,

encounter

But aye keep mind to moop and mell mump-associate Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel.

'And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath

I lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith:

And 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;
And bid him burn his cursed tether,
And, for thy pains, thou's get my blether.'

This said, poor Mailie turned her head,
And closed 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,

Past a' remead;

The last sad cape-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 neibor dear,
In Mailie dead.

Through a' the toun she trotted by him;
A lang half-mile she could descry him;
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him,
She ran wi' speed:

sorrowful

A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him
Than Mailie dead.

I wat she was a sheep o' sense,
And could behave hersel wi' mense:

I'll say't she never brak a fence,

Through thievish greed.

Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence
Sin' Mailie's dead.

discretion

inner room

Or, if he wanders up the howe,

valley

Her living image in her yowe,

Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, hillock

For bits o' bread;

And down the briny pearls rowe

For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o' moorland tips,

Wi' tawted ket, and hairy hips,

rams

matted fleece

For her forbears were brought in ships
Frae yont the Tweed:

A bonnier fleesh ne'er crossed the clips
Than Mailie dead.1

Wae worth the man wha first did shape
That vile, wanchancie thing a rape!
It makes guid fellows girn and gape,
Wi' chokin' dread;

And Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape,
For Mailie dead.

Oh a' ye bards on bonnie Doon !

And wha on Ayr your chanters tune!
Come, join the melancholious croon
O' Robin's reed!

His heart will never get aboon
His Mailie's dead!

1 Variation in original MS.:

She was nae get o' runted rams,

fleece

unlucky

griu

moan

stunted

Wi' woo like goats, and legs like trams; wagon-shafts

She was the flower o' Fairly lambs,

A famous breed;

Now Robin, greetin', chows the hams

weeping

O' Mailie dead.