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, He gaped wide, but naething fpak, O THOU whose lamentable face Appears to mourn my woefu' cafe! An' bear them to my Mafter dear. TELL him, if e'er again he keep As muckle gear as buy a fheep, Wi' wicked ftrings o' hemp or hair! L 3 * A neibor herd callan. But But ca' them out to park or hill An' let them wander at their will: So may his flock increafe, and grow < TELL him he was a Mafter kin', An' a ay was guid to me an' mine; An' now my dying charge I gie him, O, BID him fave their harmless lives, Frae dogs an' tods an' butcher's knives! 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! Το To link thro' flaps, an' reave an' fteal, At ftacks o' pease, or stocks o'kail. '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' 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! POOR POOR MAILIE's ELEGY. LAMENT in thyme, lament in profe, 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; Wi' |