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He gaped wide, but naething spak.
At length poor Mailie silence brak.
'O thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woefu' case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An' bear them to my Master dear.
'Tell him, if e'er again he keep
As muckle 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' ay 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, c'en an' morn,
Wi' taets o' hay, an' ripps o' corn.
'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 monie a year come thro' the sheers;
So wives will gie them bits o' bread,
An' bairns greet 10 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 12 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 other menseless', graceless brutes.
'An' niest my yowie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether string!
O, may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop;
But ay keep mind to moop3 an' mell',
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel!
'And 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 kind 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 blather'
This said, poor Mailie turned her head,
An' closed her een amang the dead!
FROM AN EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, AN OLD
SCOTTISH BARD.'
I am nae Poet, in a sense,
But just a Rhymer like, by chance,
An' hae to learning nae pretence,
Yet, what the matter?
Whene'er my Muse does on me glance,
I jingle at her.
Your critic-folk may cock their nose,
And say, 'How can you e'er propose,
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose,
To mak a sang?'
But, by your leaves, my learned foes,
Ye're maybe wrang.
What's a' your jargon o' your schools,
Your Latin names for horns an' stools;
If honest nature made you fools,
What sairs your grammars?
Ye'd better taen up spades and shools,
Or knappin 2-hammers.
A set o' dull, conceited hashes,
Confuse their brains in college classes!
They gang in stirks', and come out asses,
Plain truth to speak;
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus
By dint o' Greek!
Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire,
That's a' the learning I desire;
Then tho' I drudge thro' cub an' mire
At pleugh or cart,
My Muse, though hamely in attire,
May touch the heart.
O for a spunk' o' Allan's glee,
Or Fergusson's, the bauld and slee,
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be,
If I can hit it!
TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST,
WITH THE PLough, NovemBER, 1785.
Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickerin brattle "!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle 1o !
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request:
I'll get a blessing wi' the lave,
And never miss 't!
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big? a new one,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell3 an' keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till, crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell
That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
'An ear of corn now and then; a thrave is twenty-four sheaves.
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane1,
In proving foresight may be vain :
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men,
Gang aft agley 2,
An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain,
For promised joy.
Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But, och! I backward cast my e'e
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!
THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.
Inscribed to R. Aiken, Esq.
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short but simple annals of the Poor.--Gray.
My loved, my honoured, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's sequestered scene;
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there I ween
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh3;
The short'ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose;
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