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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 flocks increase, an' grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'!1
Tell him, he was a Master kin',

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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, e'en an' morn,
Wi' teats o' hay, an' ripps1 o' corn.

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An' may they never learn the gaets5
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets!

To slink thro' slaps, an' reaves an' steal,
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail.
So may they, like their great Forbears,9
For monie a year come thro' the shears;
So wives will gie them bits o' bread,

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An' bairns greet10 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 havins12 in his breast!
An' warn him, what I winna name;
To stay content wi' yowes at hame;
An' not to rin an' wear his cloots,
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.
An' niest my yowie,12 silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether string!

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O, may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop;
But ay keep mind to moop' an' mell,2
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 blathe :."

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 cape-stane1 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 toun 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 hersel wi' mense;

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

Thro' thievish greed.

Our Bardie, lanely, keeps the Spence

Nibble.

Sin' Mailie's dead.

2 Meddle.
5 Worn with grief.

3 Bladder. ♦ Copestone. 6 Parlour.

Or, if he wanders up the howe,1
Her living image, in her yowe,

Comes bleating to him owre the knowe,2

For bits o' bread;

An' down the briny pearls rowe

For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o' moorland tips,3
Wi' tawted1 ket, an' hairy hips;
For her forbears were brought in ships,

Frae yont the Tweed:
A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips5
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 bonnie Doon !
An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune!
Come, join the melancholious croon9

O' Robin's reed!

His heart will never get aboon

His Mailie dead!

1 Dell.

TO JAMES SMITH.10

Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul!
Sweet'ner of Life, and solder of Society!
I owe thee much.

DEAR Smith, the sleest, paukie11 thief,
That e'er attempted stealth or rief,
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef12

Blair.

Owre human hearts;
For ne'er a bosom yet was prief13
Against your arts.
For me, I swear by sun and moon,
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon,
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon

Just gaun to see you;

And ev'ry ither pair that's done,

Mair ta'en I'm wi' you.

2 Hillock.
3 Rams. 4 Matted wool.
6 Unlucky .7 Grin. 8 Parts of bagpipes.

5 Sheers. 9 Moan.

10 Smith kept a shop in Mauchline. 11 Cunning. 2 Wizard spell. 13 Proof

That auld, capricious carlin,1 Nature,
To mak amends for scrimpit2 stature,
She's turn'd you aff, a human creature
On her first plan,

And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature,
She's wrote,

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The Man."

Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme,
My barmie noddle's working prime,
My fancie yerkit up sublime

Wi' hasty summon :

Hae ye a leisure moment's time

To hear what's comin?

Some rhyme a neebor's name to lash;
Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash;
Some rhyme to court the contra clash,
An' raise a din;

For me, an aim I never fash;4

I rhyme for fun.

The star that rules my luckless lot,
Has fated me the russet coat,

An' d-d my fortune to the groat;
But, in requit,

Has blest me wi' a random shot
O' countra wit.

This while my notion's taen a sklent,
To try my fate in guid, black prent;
But still the mair I'm that way bent,

Something cries, "Hoolie !5
I red you, honest man, tak tent !

Ye'll shaw your folly.

"There's ither poets, much your betters,
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters,
Hae thought they had ensur'd their debtors,
A' future ages;

Now moths deform in shapeless tatters,
Their unknown pages.'

Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs,

To garland my poetic brows!

Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs

Are whistling thrang,

An' teach the lanely heights an' howes

1 Old woman.

My rustic sang.

2 Scanty. 3 Lashed. Care for. 5 Gently. I warn you.

I'll wander on, wi' tentless1 heed
How never-halting moments speed,
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread;
Then, all unknown,

I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead,
Forgot and gone!

But why o' Death begin a tale?
Just now we're living, sound an' hale;
Then top and maintop crowd the sail,
Heave Care o'er side!

And large, before Enjoyment's gale,
Let's tak the tide.

This life, sae far's I understand,2

Is a' enchanted fairy-land,

Where pleasure is the magic wand,

That, wielded right,

Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand,

Dance by fu' light.

The magic-wand then let us wield;
For, ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd,3
See, crazy, weary, joyless Eild,

4

Wi' wrinkl'd face,

Comes hostin, hirplin5 owre the field,

Wi' creepin pace.

When ance life's day draws near the gloamin,
Then fareweel vacant careless roamin
An' fareweel chearfu' tankards foamin,

An' social noise;

An' fareweel dear deluding woman,

The joy of joys!

;

O Life! how pleasant in thy morning,
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning!
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning,
We frisk away,

Like school-boys, at th' expected warning,
To joy and play.

1 Heedless.

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2 In your epistle to J. S., the stanzas, from that beginning with this line, "This life," &c., to that which ends with, " Short while it grieves,' are easy, flowing, gaily philosophical, and of Horatian elegance. The language is English, with a few Scottish words, and some of those so harmonious as to add to the beauty; for what poet would not prefer gloaming to twilight? -Dr. MOORE, June 10, 1789." 5 Limping.

3 Climbed.

♦ Coughing.

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