Page images

Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether,

To some hain'de rig,

Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,
Wi' sma' fatigue.


The Author's only Pet Yowe.
An unco mournfu' Tale.

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither,
Were ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot' she coosts a hitch,
An' owre she warsl'dt in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughocu he came doytin'w by.

Wi' glowrin' een, an lifted han's
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, waes 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 wofu' case!
My dying words attentive hear,
And 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, and grow
To scores o' lambs, and packs o' woo'!
'Tell him he was a Master kin',

• Cautious.
p Spared. १. Stretch.
Wrestled, or fell struggling.
w Stupidly.

↑ Hoof.

s Did cast.

u A neebor herd callan. Staring eyes.

An' ay was guid to me and 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 good cow-milk their fill,
Till they be fit to fend themsel':
An' tent them duly, e'en and morn,
Wi' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn.

'An' may they never learn the gaets Of ither vile wanrestfu'a pets;

To slink thro' slaps, an' reave, an' steal,
At stacks o' pease or stocks o' kail.
So may they, like their great forbears,d
For monie a year come thro' the shears :
So wives will gie them bits o' bread,

An' bairns greete for them when they're dead.
My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir,

[ocr errors]

O, bid him breed him up wi' care!

An', if he live to be a beast,
To pit some havinse in his breast!
An' warn him, what I winna name,
To stay content wi' yowesh at hame;
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.
An' niest my yowie, silly thing,
Gudem keep thee frae a tether string!
O, may thou ne'er forgather" up
Wi' onie blastit, moorland toop ;P
t ay keep mind to moops an' mell

Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel!

[ocr errors]

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

I lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith;

y Foxes.

b Gates.

A Ill-bred.

a Restless. Weep. f Ram-lamb.

i Hoofs.

z Manners.

c Rove. d Forefathers. g Good-manners.

To meet. • Blasted. p Ram. r Meddle.

1 Next.

h Ewes. m God.

9 To nibble as a sheep.

An' when you think upo' your mither, Mind to be kin' to ane anither.

[ocr errors]

Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail To tell my Master a' my tale;

An' bid him burn this cursed tether,
An' for thy pains, thou's get my blether."
This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head,
An' clos'd her een' amang the dead.


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 of 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 herself wi' mense :2
I'll say 't, she never brak a fence

Thro' thievish greed;a

Our Bardie, lanely, keeps the spenceb
Sin' Mailie 's dead.

t Eyes.
Cope-stone, or top-stone.
a Greediness.

s Bladder.


u Salt.

w Remedy.

y Worn with grief.
The country parlour.

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 rowed
For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o' moorland tips,
Wi' tauted ket an' hairy hips;
For her forbears were brought in ships
Frae 'yont the Tweed;
A bonnier fleeshh ne'er cross'd the clips
Than Mailie dead.

Wae worth the man wha first did shape
That vile wanchanciel thing—a rape! K
It maks guid fellows girn an' gape,
Wi' chokin' dread;
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape,
For Mailie dead.

0, a'

ye bards on bonnie Doon!
An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune!
Come, join the melancholious croon
O' Robin's reed!

His heart will never get aboon

His Mailie dead!


To the noble Duke of Athole.

My Lord, I know your noble ear
Woe ne'er assails in vain ;
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear
Your humble slave complain,

e A hollow, or dell. d Roll.

g Progenitors.

e Ram. f Matted fleece.
i Unlucky.
k Rope
m A hollow moan.

h Fleece. To twist the features in agony. Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; but the effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs.


saucy Phoebus' scorching beams,
In flaming summer-pride,

Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.

The lightly-jumping glowrin'" trouts,
That thro' my waters play,
If, in their random, wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
I'm scorching up so shallow,
They're left the whit'ning stanes amang,
In grasping death to wallow.

Last day I grat° wi' spite and teen,P
As Poet Burns came by,
That, to a Bard, I should be seen
Wi' half my channel dry :
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,
Ev'n as I was he shor'da me;
But had I in my glory been,
He, kneeling, wad ador'd me.

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,
In twisting strength I rin;
There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild-roaring o'er a linn ;r
Enjoying large each spring and well
As Nature gave them me,
I am, altho' I say 't mysel,
Worth gauns a mile to see.

Would then my noble master please
To grant my highest wishes,

He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees,
And bonnie spreading bushes;


o Wept p Grief, sorrow.

A precipice, or waterfall.

? Offered

$ Going.

« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »