I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep In cart or car thou never reestit; But just thy step a wee thing hastit, My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a'; That thou hast nurst; They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, Yet here to crazy age we're brought, An think na, my auld, trusty servan', That now perhaps thou's less deservin, An' thy auld days may end in starvin, For my last fou, A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve ane Laid by for you. We've worn to crazy years thegither; We'll toyte about wi' ane anither; Wi' tentie care I'll fit thy tether: To some hain'd rig, Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE An unco mournfu' Tale As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted han's "O thou, whase lamentable face "Tell him, if e'er again he keep * A Neighbour herd-callan. So may his flock increase, an' grow "Tell him he was a master kin', "O, bid him save their harmless lives "An' may they never learn the gaets Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets! To slink thro' slaps, an' reave, an' steal, "My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, "An' niest my yowie, silly thing, But ah keep mind to moop an' mell "And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, "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' clos'd her een amang the dead. POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Past a' remead; The last sad cap-stane of his woes; Poor Mailie's dead! It's no the loss o' warl's gear, 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, Thro' thievish greed; Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 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 ke, an' hairy hips; For her forbears were brought in ships Frae yont the Tweed: A bonier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips Than Mailie dead. Was worth the man wha first did shape That vile, wanchancie thing-a rape! It maks guid fellows girn an gape, Wi' chockin bread; An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, O, a' ye bards on bonie Doon! His heart will never get aboon! His Mailie dead. END OF VOL. I. |