So may they, like their great Forbears,
For monie a year come thro' the sheers;
So wives will gie them bits o' bread,

!

An' bairns greet 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 havins in his breast!
An' warn him, what I winna name,
To stay content wi' yowes at hame;
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots,
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.
An niest my yowie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether string!

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O, may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi' only blastit, moorland toop;
But ay keep mind to moop an' mell,
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 blather.'

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head,

An' clos'd her een amang the dead!

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POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY.

AMENT 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-stane of his woes;
Poor Malie'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

Sin' Mailie's dead.

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

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Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe,

For bits o' bread;

An' down the briny pearls rowe

For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 1
Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips;

For her forbears were brought in ships,
Frae yont the Tweed:
A bonier 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 an' gape,

Wi' chokin dread;

An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape,

For Mailie dead.

O, a' ye Bards on bonie Doon!

An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune!
Come, join the melancholious croon

VAR.

O' Robin's reed!

His heart will never get aboon!

His Mailie's dead!

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This stanza, as originally written, though printed

in the first and all other editions as in the text, was

She was nae get o' runted rams,

Wi' woo' like goats, and legs like trams;

She was the flower o' Fairlie lambs,

A famous breed:

Now Robin, greetin', chows the hams

O' Mailie dead.

TO JAMES SMITH.*

Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul!
Sweet'ner of Life, and solder of Society!

I owe thee much.

Blair.

EAR Smith, the sleeest, paukie thief,
That e'er attempted stealth or rief,
Ye surely hae some warlock-breef
Owre human hearts;

For ne'er a bosom yet was prief

Against your arts.

* The person to whom these verses are addressed was then a shopkeeper at Mauchline. In February, 1786, Burns said in a letter to Mr. Richmond from Mossgiel, "I am extremely happy with Smith: he is the only friend I have now in Mauchline." Smith afterwards removed to Avon, near Linlithgow, where he established a calico printing manufactory. On the 28th of April, 1788, Burns thus acquainted him with his marriage: "To let you a little into the secrets of my pericranium, there is, you must know, a certain clean limbed, handsome, bewitching young hussy of your acquaintance, to whom I have lately and privately given a matrimonial title to my corpus." "I intend," he adds, "to present Mrs. Burns with a printed shawl, an article of which I dare say you have variety; 'tis my first present to her since I have irrevocably called her mine; and I have a kind of whimsical wish to get her the said first present from an old and much valued friend of hers and mine, a trusty Trojan, on whose friendship I count myself possessed of a life rent lease."

Allan Cunningham says, Smith "accompanied Burns into the house of Posie Nancy, and saw the scene which is the subject of The Jolly Beggars.' Having failed in his speculations, Smith went to the West Indies, and soon afterwards died. He was a person of ready wit, lively manners, and much respected by the Poet."

For me, I swear by sun an' 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 taen I'm wi'

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

And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature,

you.

She's wrote, '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 countra clash,

An' raise a din;

For me, an aim I never fash;

I rhyme for fun.

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

An' damn'd my fortune to the groat;

But, in requit,

Has blest me wi' a random shot

O' countra wit.

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