As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither,
Were ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An' owre she warsled in the ditch ;
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc he came doytin by.

Wi' glowrin' een, and lifted han's,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's:
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, wae's my heart! he could na mend it!
He gaped wide, but naething spak!
At length poor Mailie silence brak.

"O thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my waefu' case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An' bear them to my Master dear.

Tell him, if e'er again he keep
As muckie gear as buy a sheep,
O, bid him never tie them mair
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair!
But ca' them out to park or hill,
An' let them wander at their will:
So may his flock increase, an'
grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'!

'Tell him, he was a master kin', An' aye 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 save their harmless lives, Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives! But gie them guid cow milk their fill, Till they be fit to fend themsel'; An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, Wi' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn.

A neebor herd-callan.

‹ An' may they never learn the gaets
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets!
To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal,
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail.
So may they, like their great forbears,
For mony a year come thro' the sheers:
So wives will gie them bits o' bread,

An' bairns greet for them when they're dead.

My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir,
O bid him breed him up wi' care!
An' if he live to be a beast,

To pit 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' neist my yowie, silly thing,
Guid keep thee frae a tether string
O, may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi' ony blastit moorland toop:
But aye keep mind to moop an' mell
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel'!

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

I lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith:
An' when you think upo' your mither,
Mind to be kin' to ane anither.

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, And closed her een amang the dead.

POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose; Our bardie's fate is at a close, Past a' remead ; The last sad cape-stane o' his woes; 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.

Thro' a' the town 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 t I'll say't, she never brak a fence, Thro' thievish greed,

In cent. per cent

An' fareweel dear deluding woman,
The joy of joys!

O Life! how pleasant in thy morning, Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning! Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, We frisk away,

Like school-boys, at the expected warning, To joy and play.

But give me real, sterling wit,

An' I'm content.

For me! before a monarch's face,
Ev'n there I winna flatter;
For neither pension, post, nor place,
Am I your humble debtor:
So nae reflection on your grace,
Your kingship to bespatter;
There's monie waur been o' the race,
An' aiblins ane been better

Than you this day.
IV.

'Tis very true, my sov'reign king,
My skill may weel be doubted:
But facts are chiels that winna ding,
An' downa be disputed:
Your royal nest, beneath your wing,
Is e'en right reft an' clouted,
An' now the third part o' the string,
An' less, will gang about it
Than did ae day.

V.

Far be't frae me that I aspire

To blame your legislation,

Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire,
To rule this mighty nation!

But, faith! I muckle doubt, my Sire,

Ye've trusted ministration

To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre,
Wad better fill'd their station

Than courts yon day.
VI.

An, now ye've gien auld Britain peace,
Her brokea shins to plaister;

Your sair taxation does her fleece,

Till she has scarce a tester;

For me, thank God, my life's a lease,

Nae bargain wearing faster,

Or, faith! I fear, that wi' the geese,
I shortly boost to pasture

I the craft some day.
VII.

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt,
When taxes he enlarges,

(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get,
A name not envy spairges),
That he intends to pay your debt,
An' lessen a' your charges;

Here, rivers in the sea were lost : There, mountains to the skies were tost:

royal sailor's amour.

Duan, a term of Ossian's for the different divisions

With surging foam;

The lordly dome.