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There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
W1 glowrin een, an' lifted han's, Poor Hugboc like a ftatue stan's ;
He saw her days were near hand ended,
He gaped wide, but naething spak,
At length poor Mailic filence brak.
O Thou whose lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woefu' case!
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 !
* 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;
*O, BID him save their harmless lives, Frae dogs an' tods an' butcher's knives!
But gie them guid cow milk their fill,
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn,
« An' may they never learn the gaets Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets!
To slink thro' flaps, an'reave an steal,
"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 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, filly thing, Gude keep thee frae a tether string !
O, may thou ne'er forgather up
* 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' for thy pains thou’se get my blather.'
This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, An' clos'd her een amang the dead!
POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY:
LAMENT in thyme, lament in prose,
Past a reméad !
The last, fad cape-ftane of his woes;
Poor Mailie's dead!
Its 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,
In Mailie dead.
THRO' a'the town she trotted by him; A lang half-mile she could descry him;