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Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether,
To some hain'de rig,
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather,
THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE
The Author's only Pet Yowe.
As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither,
Wi' glowrin' een, an lifted han's
s Did cast.
u A neebor herd callan. Staring eyes.
An' ay was guid to me and mine;
O, bid him save their harmless lives,
'An' may they never learn the gaets Of ither vile wanrestfu'a pets;
To slink thro' slaps, an' reave, an' steal,
An' bairns greete for them when they're dead.
O, bid him breed him up wi' care!
An', if he live to be a beast,
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel!
And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath,
I lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith;
a Restless. Weep. f Ram-lamb.
c Rove. d Forefathers. g Good-manners.
To meet. • Blasted. p Ram. r Meddle.
h Ewes. m God.
9 To nibble as a sheep.
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,
POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY.
LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose,
Past a' remead;"
The last sad cap-stane of his woes;
It's no the loss o' warl's gear,
Thro' a' the town she trotted by him;
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him,
I wat she was a sheep o' sense,
An' could behave herself wi' mense :2
Thro' thievish greed;a
Our Bardie, lanely, keeps the spenceb
y Worn with grief.
Or, if he wanders up the howe,
Comes bleating to him, o'er the knowe,
An' down the briny pearls rowed
She was nae get o' moorland tips,
Wae worth the man wha first did shape
ye bards on bonnie Doon!
His heart will never get aboon
His Mailie dead!
THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER,*
To the noble Duke of Athole.
My Lord, I know your noble ear
e A hollow, or dell. d Roll.
e Ram. f Matted fleece.
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,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
The lightly-jumping glowrin'" trouts,
Last day I grat° wi' spite and teen,P
Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,
Would then my noble master please
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees,
o Wept p Grief, sorrow.
A precipice, or waterfall.