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There, groaning, dying, fhe did lie,

When Hughache cam doytin by

Wr' glowrin een, an' lifted han's,

Poor Hugboc like a ftatue ftan's;

He faw her days were near hand ended,
But, waes my heart! he could na mend it!

He gaped wide, but naething fpak,
At length poor Mailie filence brak.

O THOU whose lamentable face

Appears to mourn my woefu' cafe!
My dying words attentive hear,

An' bear them to my Mafter dear.

TELL him, if e'er again he keep

As muckle gear as buy a fheep,
O, bid him never tie them mair

Wi' wicked ftrings o' hemp or hair!

L 3

* A neibor herd callan.


But ca' them out to park or hill

An' let them wander at their will:

So may his flock increafe, and grow
To fcores o' lambs, an' packs of woo'!

< TELL him he was a Mafter kin',

An' a

ay was guid to me an' mine;

An' now my dying charge I gie him,
My helpless lambs, I trust them wi' him,

O, BID him fave 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 themfel;

An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn,

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

'AN' may they never learn the gaets

Of ither vile, wanreftfu' pets!


To link thro' flaps, an' reave an' fteal,

At ftacks o' pease, or stocks o'kail.
So may they, like their great Forbears,
For monie a year come thro' the fhears:
So wives will gie them bits o' bread,
An' bairns greet for them when they're dead.

'My poor toop-lamb, my fon an' heir,

O, bid him breed him up wi' care!

An' if he live to be a beast,

To put fome havins in his breaft!

An' warn him what I winna name,

To stay content wi' yowes at hame;
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots,
Like ither menfelefs, gracelefs brutes.

An' nieft my yowie, filly thing,

Gude keep thee frae a tether ftring!

O, may

O, may thou ne'er forgather up

Wi' ony blaftit moorland toop;

But ay keep mind to moop an' mell,

Wi' fheep o' credit like thyfel!

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

I lea'e my bleffin wi' you baith:

An' when you think upo' your Mither,

Mind to be kind to ane anither.

'Now, honeft Hugboc, dinna fail

To tell my Mafter a' my tale;

An' bid him burn this curfed tether,

An' for thy pains thou'fe get my blather.'

THIS faid, poor Mailie turn'd her head, An' clos'd her een amang the dead!



LAMENT in thyme, lament in profe,
Wi' faut tears trickling down your nofe;

Our Bardie's fate is at a clofe,

Paft a remead!

The laft, fad cape-ftane of his woes;

Poor Mailie's dead!

ITs no the lofs o' warl's gear,

That could fae bitter draw the tear,

Or mak our Bardie, dowie, wear

The mourning weed:

He's loft a friend and neebor dear,

In Mailie dead.

THRO' a' the town fhe trotted by him; A lang half-mile fhe could defcry him;


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