O' may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop;

But ay keep mind to moop 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 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, thous'e 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,
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose!
Our bardie's fate is at a close,

Past a' remead ;

The last sad cap-stane o' his woes!
Poor Mail e'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.

ར

He's lost a friend and neebor dear,
In Mailie dead.

Thro' a' the toun see 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
Sin' Mailie's dead.

Or, if he wanders up the howe,
Her living image, in her yowe,
Comes bleating to him o'er the knowe,
For bits o' bread;

An' down the briny pearls rowe,

For Mailie dead

She was nae get o' moorland tips,
Wi' tawted ket 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.

Wae worth the man wha first did shape
That vile, wanchancie thing-a rape!
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 Ayr your chanters tune
Come, join the melancholious croon
O' Robin's reed!

the heart will never get aboor
His Mailie dead

BOOK IV.

HUMOROUS, SATIRICAL, EPIGRAMMATICAI.

AND MISCELLANEOUS.

TAM O'SHANTER.

A TALE.

Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this buke.

GAWIN DOUGLAS

WHEN chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet,
As market days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate;
While we set bousing at the nappy,
An' gettin' fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gath'ring her brows, like gath'ring storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam O'Shanter,
As he, frae Ayr, ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses)

O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise,
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,

Ae market day thou was na sober;
That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the L-d's house, ev'n on Sunday
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesied that, late or soon,

Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how monie counsels sweet, How monie lengthen'd, sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises!

But to our tale :-Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right; Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely, And at his elbow, souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouther crony; Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, And ay the ale was growing better; The landlady and Tam grew gracious,

Wi' favors, secret, sweet, and precious: