An' warn him ay at ridin time,
To stay content wi' yowes at hame;
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots,
Like ither menfelefs, graceless brutes.

An' nieft my yowie, filly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether firing!
O, may thou ne'er forgather up,
Wi' onie blastet, moorlan toop;

But ay keep mind to moop an' mell,
Wi' fheep o' credit like thyfel!

And now, my bairns, wi' my

I lea'e my bleffin wi' you baith:

laft breath,

An' when ye think upo' your Mither,

Mind to be kind to ane anither.

Now, honeft Hughoc, dinna fail, To tell Mafter a' my tale;

my

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' clof'd her een amang the dead!

H

:

POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY.

L

AMENT in rhyme, lament in prose,

Wi' faut tears trickling down your nose;

Our Bardie's fate is at a close,

Paft a' remead!

The laft, fad cape-ftane of his woes;

Poor Mallie's dead!

It's no the lofs o' warl's gear, That could fae bitter draw the tear, Or make 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' kindly bleat, when she did spy him,

She ran wi' speed:

A friend mair faithfu' ne'er came nigh him,

Than Mailie dead.

I wat she was a sheep o' fenfe, An' could behave hersel wi' mense:

I'll fay't, she never brak a fence,

Thro' thievifh 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 till him, owre the knowe,

For bits o' bread;

An' down the briny pearls rowe

For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o' moorlan tips,

Wi' tauted ket, an' hairy hips;

For her forbears were brought in fhips,

Fraé'yont the TWEED:

A bonier fleefb ne'er crofs'd the clips

Than Mailie's dead.

Wae worth that man wha first did shape, That vile, wanchancie thing-a raep!

It maks guid fellows girn an' gape,

Wi' chokin dread;

An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape

For Mailie dead.

O, a' ye Bards on bonie DOON! An' wha on AIRE your chanters tune! Come, join the melancholious croon

O' Robin's reed!

His heart will never get aboon!

His Mailie's dead!

Friendship, myfterious cement of the foul!
Sweet'ner of Life, and folder of Society!
I owe thee much-

BLAIR.

D

EAR S **, the fleeft, pawkie thief,
That e'er attempted stealth or rief,

Ye furely hae fome warlock-breef

Owre human hearts;

For ne'er a bofom yet was prief

Against your arts.

For me, I swear by sun an' moon, And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, Ye've coft me twenty pair o' fhoon

Juft gaun to see you;