By this, the sun was out o' sight,
An' darker gloaming brought the night;
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone;
The kye stood routin' i' the loan:
When up they gat, and shook their lugs,
Rejoic'd they where na men but dogs;
An, each took aff his several way,
Resolv'd to meet some ither day.
THE wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw,
Or the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw;
While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.
"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast *,"
The joyless winter-day,
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fates resembles mine.
Thou power Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,
Because they are Thy Will!
Then all I want (O, do thou grant
This one request of mine!),
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign!
THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE,
THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE.
An unco mournfu' Tale.
As Mailie and her lambs thegither,
Were ae day nibling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
And owre she warsled in the ditch;
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc* he came doytin by.
Wi' glowrin een, and lifted han's,
Poor Hughoe like a statue stan's;
He saw her days were near-hand endit,
But, waes my heart! he cou'dna mend it!
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,
And bear them to my Master dear:
"Tell him, if e're 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,
And 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’,
And aye was gude to me and mine;
And now my dying charge I gi'e him,
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him.
"O, bid him save their harmless lives,
Frae dogs, and tods, and butchers' knives!
But gi'e them gude cow-milk their fill,
Till they be fit to fend themsel';
And tent them duly, e'en and morn,
Wi' teats o' hay and rips o' corn.
* A neighbour herd- allan.
"And may they never learn the gaets Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets!
To slink thro' slaps, and reave and steal
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail.
So may they, like their great forbears,
For mony a year come thro' the shears:
So wives will gie them bits o' bread,
And bairns greet for them when they're dead.
"My poor toop-lamb, my son and heir,
O bid him breed him up wi' care!
And if he live to be a beast,
To pit some havins in his breast;
And warn him, what I winna name,
To stay content wi' yowes at hame;
And no' to rin and wear his cloots,
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.
"And neist, my yowie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tither string!
O, may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop!
But aye keep mind to moop and mell
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel'.
"And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath,
I leave my blessin' wi' you baith;
And when you think upon your mither,
Mind to be kind to ane anither.
"Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail
To tell my my master a' my tale;
And bid him burn this cursed tether;
And for thy pains thou's get my blether."
This said, poor Mallie turn'd her head,
And closed her een among the dead!
LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose,
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose;
Our bardie's fate if at a close,
The last sad cape-stane of his woes;
It's no the loss o' warld's gear
That could sae bitter draw the tear,
Or mak' our bardie, dowie, wear
The mourning weed;
He's lot a friend and neebor dear
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 run wi' speed;
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam' nigh him,
Than Mailie dead.
I wot she was a sheep o' sense,
And could behave hersel' wi' mense;
I'll say't, she never brak' a fence
Thro' thievish greed;
Our bardle, 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, owre the knowe,
For bits o' bread;
And down the briny pearls rowe
For Mailie dead.
She was nae get o' muirland tips,
Wi' tawted ket, and hairy hips:
For her forbears were brought in ships
Frae yont the Tweed! A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips Than Mailie's dead.
Wae worth the man wha first did shape
That vile wanchancie thing-a rape!
It maks gude fellows girn and gape,
Wi' chokin' dread;
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape,
For Mailie dead.
O, a' ye bards on bonny Doon!
And wha on Ayr your chanters tune!
Come, join the melancholious croon
His heart will never get aboon
His Mailie dead.
WHILE winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw,
And hing us owre the ingle,
I set me down to pass the time,
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme,
In hamely westlin' jingle.
While frosty winds blaw in the drift,
Ben to the chimla-lug,
I grudge a wee the great folk's gift,
That live sae bien an' snug:
I tent less, and want less,
Their roomy fire-side;
But hanker and canker
To see their cursed pride.
It's hardly in a body's power
To keep, at times, frae being sour,
To see how things are shared;
How best o' chiels are whyles in want,
While coofs on countless thousands rant,
And ken na how to wair't;
But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head,
Though we ha'e little gear,
We're fit to win our daily bread,
As lang's we're hale and fier:
"Mair spier na, nor fear na †,"
Auld Age ne'er mind a feg;
The last o't, the warst o't,
Is only but to beg.
To lie in kilns and barns at e'en,
When banes are crazed, and blude is thin,
Is, doubtless, great distress!
Yet then content could ma' us blest;
Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste
Of truest happiness.
* David Sillar, schoolmaster, one of the club at Tarbolton, and author of a volume of Poems in Scottish dialect.
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