DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE.
Their gun's a burden on their shouther;
They downa bide the stink o' powther;
Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither1
To stan' or rin,
Till skelp-a shot-they're aff, a' trowther,2
To save their skin.
But bring a Scotsman frae his hill,
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,
Say, Such is royal George's will,
An' there's the foe,
He has nae thought but how to kill
Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him;
Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him;
His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him
Sages their solemn een may steek,3
An' raise a philosophic reek,"
An' physically causes seek,
In clime and season;
But tell me Whisky's name in Greek,
Scotland, my auld, respected Mither!
Though whiles ye moistify your lether,
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather,
Ye tine your dam;
(Freedom and Whisky gang thegither!)
Tak' aff your dram!
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc he cam' doytin2 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 woefu' case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An' bear them to my Master dear.
"Tell him, if e'er again he keep
As muckle gear as buy a sheep,
Oh, 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, an' grow
To scores o' lambs an' packs o' woo'!
"Tell him, he was a master kin',
An' aye was guid to me and mine;
An' now my dying charge I gi’e him,
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him.
"Oh, bid him save their harmless lives
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives!
But gi'e 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' rips o' corn.
"An' may they never learn the gaets?
Of ither vile, wanrestfu's pets!
To slink through 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 through the sheers:
So wives will gi'e them bits o' bread,
An' bairns greet for them when they're dead.
"My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir,
Oh, bid him breed him up wi' care!
An' if he live to be a beast,
To pit some havins' in his breast!
An' warn him, what I winna name,
To stay content wi' yowes at hame
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots,
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.
"An' neist, my yowie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether string!
Oh, may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop;
But aye keep mind to moop" 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'se get my
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,
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose;
Our bardie's fate is at a close,
Through a' the toun she trotted by him;
A lang half-mile she could descry him;
PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him,
She ran wi' speed;
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er came nigh him
I wat she was a sheep o' sense,
An' could behave hersel' wi' mense;1
I'll say't, she never brak a fence
Through thievish greed.
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence
Sin' Mailie's dead.
Or, if he wanders up the howe,3
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 nae get o' moorland tips,"
Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips:
For her forbears were brought in ships
Frae yont the Tweed:
A bonnier fleesh ne'er crossed the clips
Than Mailie dead.
Wae worth the man wha first did shape
That vile wanchancie thing-a rape!
It mak's guid fellows grin an' gape,
Wi' chokin' dread;
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape
A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.
О THου unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear!
In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!
STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION.
If I have wandered in those paths
Of life I ought to shun;
As something loudly in my breast
Remonstrates I have done;
Thou know'st that Thou hast formèd me
With passions wild and strong;
And list ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.
Where human weakness has come short,
Or frailty stept aside,
Do thou, All Good! for such Thou art,
In shades of darkness hide.
Where with intention I have erred,
No other plea I have,
But, Thou art good; and Goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.
STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION.
WHY am I loth to leave this earthly scene?
Have I so found it full of pleasing charms?
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between :
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms:
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?
Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ?
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms;
I tremble to approach an angry God,
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.
Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul offence!"
Fain promise never more to disobey;
But, should my Author health again dispense,
Again I might desert fair Virtue's way;
Again in folly's path might go astray;
Again exalt the brute and sink the man;
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray,
Who act so counter heavenly Mercy's plan?
Who sin so oft have mourned, yet to temptation ran?
O Thou, great Governor of all below!
If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,
Or still the tumult of the raging sea;
With that controlling power assist e'en me,
Those headlong furious passions to confine;
For all unfit I feel my powers to be,
To rule their torrent in th' allowèd line;
Oh, aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine!
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