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I ken'd my Maggie wad na sleep
For that, or simmer.
Then stood to blaw;
Thou snoov't awa.
That thou hast nurst;
The very warst.
Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought,
We wad be beat;
Wi' something yet.
An think na, my auld, trusty servan',
For my last fou,
Laid by tor you.
To some hain'd rig,
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,
THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF
An unco mournfu' Tale
Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted han's
“O thou, whase lamentable face
"Tell him, if e'er again he keep
* A Neighbour herd-callar.
So may his flock increase, an' grow
« Tell him he was a master kin',
“ O, bid bim save their harmless lives
“ An’ may they never learn the gaets
My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir,
“Anniest my yowie, silly tbing, Gude keep thee frae a tether-string ! 1), may thou ne'er forgather up Wi'ony hlastit, moorland toop;
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.
Past a' remead ;
Poor Mailie's dead!
It's 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.
She ran wi' speed;
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
Sin' Mailie's dead.
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,
For Mailie dead.
O, a' ye bards on bonie Doon!
O' Robin's reed !
His Mailie dead.
END OF VOL. I.