There, groaning, dying, she did ly,
When Hughoc he cam doytan by.
Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted han's,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's;
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.

"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 tye 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 flock increase an' grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs of woo'!
Tell him, he was a Master kin',
An' ay was guid to me an' mine;
An' now my dying charge I gae 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 duely, e'en an' morn,
Wi' taets o' hay an' ripps o' corn.

An' may they never learn the gaets,
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' Pets!
To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal,
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail.
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.†

* A neibor herd-callan.-(R. B. 1786.)

+ Hogg says: "I know of no two lines that ever affected me more than these."

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 ay at ridin time,*
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!
O, may thou ne'er forgather up,
Wi' onie blastet, moorlan 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 ye 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!

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-stane of his woes;

Poor Mailie's dead!

It's no the loss o' warl's gear, That could sae bitter draw the tear,

* Altered, in 1787, to "what I winna name."

Or make our Bardie, dowie, wear
The mourning weed:

He's lost a friend and neebor dear,
In Mailie dead.

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 ran wi' speed:

A friend mair faithfu' ne'er came 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,

Comes bleating till him, owre the knowe,

For bits o' bread;

An' down the briny pearls rowe

For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o' moorlan tips,
Wi' tauted 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's dead.*

Wae worth that † man wha first did shape, That vile, wanchancie thing—a raep!

* In the original MS. this verse reads as follows:

"She was nae get o' runted rams,

Wi' woo' like goat's, an' legs like trams;
She was the flower o' Fairlee lambs,
A famous breed:

Now Robin, greetin' chows the hams

O' Mailie dead."

Altered, in 1787, to "the."

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 AIRE * your chanters tune!
Come, join the melancholious croon
O' Robin's reed!

His heart will never get aboon!

His Mailie's dead!

[Here we have the poet in the Spring of 1786, while on the eve of committing himself "to try his fate in guid black prent," addressing a Mauchline comrade, James Smith; at first, in an off-hand familiar way, and then sliding insensibly into a rich strain of philosophic musing, which is followed again by a humorous burst of self-gratulation and defiance of care. "Where," says Professor Walker, "can we find a more exhilarating enumeration of the enjoyments of youth, contrasted with their successive extinction as age advances, than in the epistle to J. S-?"]

DEAR S****, the sleest, pawkie 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.

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' you.

Altered, in 1787, to 'Ayr."

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

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

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

Hae

Wi' hasty summon :

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 with 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!

"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."