THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR
The Author's only Pet Yowe.
An unco mournfu' tale.
As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither,
Where ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An' owre she warsled in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc* he cam doytin by.
Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted han's,
Poor Hughoc like a statua stan's;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, waes my heart! he couldna 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,
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, 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;
* A neebor herd-callan.
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' rips o' corn.
"An' may they never learn the gates
Of ither vile wanrestfu' 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 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!
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' niest my yowie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether string!
O, 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!
"An' 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 blether."
This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, An' closed her een amang the dead.
POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY.
Lament in rhyme, lament in prose,
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose;
Our bairdie's fate is at a close,
The last sad cape-stane o' 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,
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:
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him,
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,
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence
Sin' Mailie's dead.
Or, if he wanders up 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 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 cross'd the clips
Than Mailie dead.
Wae worth the man wha first did shape
That vile wanchancie thing-a rape!
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 croon
O' Robin's reed!
His heart will never get aboon
MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN.
When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening as I wander'd forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spy'd a man, whose aged step
Seem'd weary, worn with care;
His face was furrow'd o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.
Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?
Began the reverend sage;
Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure's rage?
Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me, to mourn
The miseries of man!
The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling's pride;
I've seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return;
And every time has added proofs,
That man was made to mourn.
O man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Mispending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway;
Licentious passions burn;
Which tenfold force give nature's law,
That man was made to mourn.
Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right:
But see him on the edge of life,
With cares and sorrows worn,
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