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An' when you think upo' your mither,
Mind to be kin' 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 blether.'
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!

Its 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 neebór 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.

1 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 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,
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' choken dread:

An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape,

For Mailie's dead.

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

O' Robin's reed!

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Friendship, mysterious cement of the soul!
Sweetener of life, and solder of society!

I owe thee much.

BLAIR.

222 2

DEAR S****, the sleest 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.

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.

That auld capricious carlin, Nature,
Tu 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,

She's wrote, the Man.

Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme,
My barmie noddle's working prime,
My fancy 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.

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,

future ages;

Now moths deform, in shapeless tetters,

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

My rustic sang.

I'll wander on, with tentless 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 and 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,
Is a' enchanted fairy land,

Where pleasure is the magic wand,

Maks hours like minutes, hand-in-hand,

That, wielded right,

Dance by fu' light.

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

Wi' wrinkl'd face,

Comes hostin, hirplin owre the field,

Wi creepin pace.

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

An' social noise;

An' farewecì dear deluding woman,

The joy of joys!

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

We frisk away,

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

We wander there, we wander here,
We eye the rose upon the brier,
Unmindful that the thorn is near,

Amang the leaves;

And tho' the puny wound appear,

Short while it grieves.

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot,
For which they never toil'd nor swat;
They drink the sweet, and eat the fat,

But care or pain;

And, haply, eye the barren hut

With high disdain.

With steady aim, some fortune chase;
Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace;
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race,

And seize the prey:

Then canie, in some cozie place,

They close the day.

And others, like your humble servan',
Poor wights! nae rules nor roads observin;
To right or left, eternal swervin,

They zig-zag on;

Till curst with age, obscure an' starvin,

They aften groan.

Alas! what bitter toil an' straining

But truce with peevish poor complaining!
Is fortune's fickle Luna waning?

E'en let her gang!

Beneath what light she has remaining,

Let's sing our sang.

My pen I here fling to the door,

And kneel, 'Ye Pow'rs! (and warm implore)
Tho' I should wander terra o'er,

In all her climes,

Grant me but this, I ask no more,

Ay rowth o' rhymes.

Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds,
Till icicles hing frae their beards;
Gie fine braw claes to fine life-guards,

And maids of honour;

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