The Death and Dying Wurds of
Pour Mailie.

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE.
AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. (1)
As Mailie, and her lambs thegither,
Were ae day nibbling 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 cam doytin by.
Wi' glowering een and lifted han's,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stands;
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.

"Oh thou, whose lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woefu' 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,
Oh 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 guid to me and mine;
And now my dying charge I gie him-
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him.

"Oh bid him save their harmless lives Frae dogs, and tods, and butchers' knives! But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, Till they be fit to fend themsel; And tent them duly, e'en and morn, Wi' teats o' hay, and ripps o' corn.

"And may they never learn the gaets Of other vile wanrestfu' pets'; To slink through slaps, and reave and steal At stacks o' peas, or stocks o' kail. So may they, like their great forbears, For many a year come through 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,
Oh, 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 tether string;
Oh, 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 lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith:
And when you think upo' your mither,
Mind to be kin' to ane anither.

She was nae get o' moorland 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 dead.

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

Oh, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon!
And wha on Ayr your chanters tune!
Come, join, the melancholious croon

O' Robin's reed !
His heart will never get aboon-
His Mailie's dead!

Cpistle to Danie. A BROTHER POET. (2)

January, 1784.

WHILE winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw,
And bar the doors with 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 sa bien and 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 shar'd;
How best o' chiels are whiles in want,
While coofs on countless thousands rant,

And ken na how to wair't;
But Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head,
Tho' we hae little gear,
We're fit to win our daily bread,
As lan's we're hale and fier:

"Mair spier na, no fear na" (3),
Auld age ne'er mind a feg,
The last o't, the warst o't.
Is only but to beg. (4)

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en
When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin,

Is, doubtless, great distress!
Yet then content could make us blest;
Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste
Of truest happiness.

The honest heart that's free frae a'

Intended fraud or guile,
However fortune kick the ba',
Has aye some cause to smile:
And mind still, you'll find still,
A comfort this nae sma';
Na mair then, we'll care then,
Nae farther we can fa'.

What though, like commoners of air,
We wander out we know not where,
But either house or hal'?

Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods,
The sweeping vales, and foaming floods,
Are free alike to all.

In days when daisies deck the ground,
And blackbirds whistle clear,

With honest joy our hearts will bound
To see the coming year:

On braes when we please, then,
We'll sit and sowth a tune;
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't,
And sing't when we hae dune.

It's no in titles nor in rank;
It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank,

To purchase peace and rest;
It's no in makin' muckle mair;
It's no in books; it's no in lear,
To mak us truly blest;
If happiness hae not her seat
And centre in the breast,
We may be wise, or rich, or great,
But never can be blest:

Nae treasures nor pleasures
Could make us happy lang;
The heart aye's the part aye

That makes us right or wrang.

Think ye, that sic as you and I,
Wha drudge and drive through wet and dry,
Wi' never-ceasing toil;
Think ye, are we less blest than they,
Wha scarcely tent us in their way,
As hardly worth their while ?
Alas! how aft, in haughty mood,
God's creatures they oppress!
Or else neglecting a' that's guid,
They riot in excess!

Baith careless and fearless
Of either heaven or hell !

Esteeming and deeming
It's a' an idle tale!

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce;
Nor make our scanty pleasures less,
By pining at our state;
And, even should misfortunes come,
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some,
An's thankfu' for them yet,
They gie the wit of age to youth;
They let us ken oursel;

They make us see the naked truth,
The real guid and ill.

Though losses and crosses
Be lessons right severe,
There's wit there, ye'll get there,
Ye'll find nae other where.

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts!

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, And flatt'ry I detest)

This life has joys for you and I;

And joys that riches ne'er could buy:
And joys the very best.
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart,
The lover and the frien';

Ye hae your Meg (5), your dearest part,
And I my darling Jean!

It warms me, it charms me,
To mention but her name:
It heats me, it beets me,
And sets me a' on flame!

Oh, all ye pow'rs who rule above!
Oh, Thou, whose very self art love!
Thou know'st my words sincere!
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart,
Or my more dear immortal part,
Is not more fondly dear!
When heart-corroding care and grief
Deprive my soul of rest,
Her dear idea brings relief
And solace to my breast,
Thou Being, all-seeing,
Oh hear my fervent pray'r!
Still take her, and make her
Thy most peculiar care!

All hail, ye tender feelings dear!
The smile of love, the friendly tear,
The sympathetic glow!
Long since, this world's thorny ways
Had number'd out my weary days,
Had it not been for you!
Fate still has blest me with a friend,

In every care and ill;

And oft a more endearing band,

A tie more tender still.

It lightens, it brightens

The tenebrific scene,

To meet with, and greet with

My Davie or my Jean!

Oh, how that name inspires my style! The words come skelpin', rank and file, Amaist before I ken!

The ready measure rins as fine
As Phœbus and the famous Nine
Were glowrin' owre my pen.
My spaviet Pegasus will limp,
Till ance he's fairly het;

And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp,
And rin an unco fit:

But lest then, the beast then
Should rue this hasty ride,
I'll light now, and dight now,
His sweaty, wizen'd hide.

Address to the Dril. (6)

Oh Prince! Oh chief of many throned pow'rs,
That led th' embattled seraphim to war.-
MILTON.

Он thou! whatever title suit thee,
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie,
Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie,
Closed under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie,
To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee,
And let poor damned bodies be;
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie,
E'en to a deil,

To skelp and scaud poor dogs like me.
And hear us squeel!