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There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc * he cam.doytin by!

W1 glowrin een, an' lifted han's, Poor Hugboc like a ftatue 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 Mailic filence brak.

O Thou whose 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, .0, bid him never tie them mair Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair !

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* A neibor herd callan:

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, an' packs of woo’!

“Tell him he was a Master kin',

An'ay was guid to me an’mine;
An' now my dying charge I gie him,
My helpless lamlys, I trust them wi' him,

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*O, BID him save their harmless lives, Frae dogs an' tods an' butcher's 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' ripps ocorn.

« An' may they never learn the gaets Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets!


To slink thro' flaps, 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 shears :
So wives will gie them bits o’ bread,
An' bairns greet for them when they're dead.

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poor toop-lamb, my son an heir, O, bid him breed him up wi' care!

An' if he live to be a beast,

To put 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.

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* An' niest my yowie, filly thing, Gude keep thee frae a tether string !

O, may

O, may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi'ony blaftit moorland toop;
But ay 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


An' when you think upo' your Mither,

Mind to be kind to ane anither.

Now, honest Hug boc, dinna fail

To tell my Master a' my tale ;
An' bid him burn this cursed tether,

An' for thy pains thou’se get my blather.'

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, An' clos'd her een amang the dead!




LAMENT in ghyme, lament in profe,
Wi' faut tears trickling down your nose;

Our Bardie's fate is at a close,

Past a reméad !

The last, fad cape-stane of his woes;

Poor Mailie's dead!

Its no the loss o' warl's gear,

That could sae bitter draw the tear,

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Or mak our Bardie, dowie, wear

The mourning weed: He's loft a friend and neebor dear,

In Mailie dead.

THRO' a' the town she trotted by him;

A lang half-mile she could descry him;


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