Death And Dying Words Of Poor Mailie,
The Author’s Only Pet Yowe., The.
An Unco Mournfu’ Tale.
As Mailie, an’
her lambs thegither,
Was ae day nibbling
on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost
a hitch,
An’ owre she warsl’d
in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying,
she did lie,
When Hughoc he cam doytin
by.
Wi’ glowrin een,
and lifted han’s
Poor Hughoc like a statue
stan’s;
He saw her days were
near-hand ended,
But, wae’s my
heart! he could na mend it!
He gaped wide, but naething
spak,
At langth 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 tie
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 o’ woo’!
“Tell him, he
was a Master kin’,
An’ aye was guid
to me an’ mine;
An’ now my dying
charge I gie him,
My helpless lambs, I
trust them wi’ him.
“O, bid him save
their harmless lives,
Frae dogs, an’
tods, an’ butcher’s knives!
But gie them guid cow-milk
their fill,
Till they be fit to
fend themsel’;
An’ tent them
duly, 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 mony a year come
thro the shears:
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’ neist,
my yowie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae
a tether string!
O, may thou ne’er
forgather up,
Wi’ ony blastit,
moorland toop;
But aye 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,
And 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
o’ his woes;
Poor Mailie’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
an’ 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 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
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’
moorland 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 the man wha
first did shape
That vile, wanchancie
thing a raip!
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
O’ Robin’s
reed!
His heart will never
get aboon
His Mailie’s dead!
Song The Rigs O’ Barley.
Tune “Corn
Rigs are bonie.”
It was upon a Lammas
night,
When corn rigs are bonie,
Beneath the moon’s
unclouded light,
I held awa to Annie;
The time flew by, wi’
tentless heed,
Till, ’tween the
late and early,
Wi’ sma’
persuasion she agreed
To see me thro’
the barley.
Corn rigs, an’
barley rigs,
An’ corn rigs
are bonie:
I’ll ne’er
forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi’
Annie.
The sky was blue, the
wind was still,
The moon was shining
clearly;
I set her down, wi’
right good will,
Amang the rigs o’
barley:
I ken’t her heart
was a’ my ain;
I lov’d her most
sincerely;
I kiss’d her owre
and owre again,
Amang the rigs o’
barley.
Corn rigs, an’
barley rigs, &c.
I lock’d her in
my fond embrace;
Her heart was beating
rarely:
My blessings on that
happy place,
Amang the rigs o’
barley!
But by the moon and
stars so bright,
That shone that hour
so clearly!
She aye shall bless
that happy night
Amang the rigs o’
barley.
Corn rigs, an’
barley rigs, &c.
I hae been blythe wi’
comrades dear;
I hae been merry drinking;
I hae been joyfu’
gath’rin gear;
I hae been happy thinking:
But a’ the pleasures
e’er I saw,
Tho’ three times
doubl’d fairly,
That happy night was
worth them a’,
Amang the rigs o’
barley.
Corn rigs, an’
barley rigs, &c.
Song Composed In August.
Tune “I
had a horse, I had nae mair.”
Now westlin winds and
slaught’ring guns
Bring Autumn’s
pleasant weather;
The moorcock springs
on whirring wings
Amang the blooming heather:
Now waving grain, wide
o’er the plain,
Delights the weary farmer;
And the moon shines
bright, when I rove at night,
To muse upon my charmer.
The partridge loves
the fruitful fells,
The plover loves the
mountains;
The woodcock haunts
the lonely dells,
The soaring hern the
fountains:
Thro’ lofty groves
the cushat roves,
The path of man to shun
it;
The hazel bush o’erhangs
the thrush,
The spreading thorn
the linnet.
Thus ev’ry kind
their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and
leagues combine,
Some solitary wander:
Avaunt, away! the cruel
sway,
Tyrannic man’s
dominion;
The sportsman’s
joy, the murd’ring cry,
The flutt’ring,
gory pinion!
But, Peggy dear, the
ev’ning’s clear,
Thick flies the skimming
swallow,
The sky is blue, the
fields in view,
All fading-green and
yellow:
Come let us stray our
gladsome way,
And view the charms
of Nature;
The rustling corn, the
fruited thorn,
And ev’ry happy
creature.
We’ll gently walk,
and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon
shine clearly;
I’ll grasp thy
waist, and, fondly prest,
Swear how I love thee
dearly:
Not vernal show’rs
to budding flow’rs,
Not Autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be as thou
to me,
My fair, my lovely charmer!
Song.
Tune “My
Nanie, O.”
Behind yon hills where
Lugar flows,
‘Mang moors an’
mosses many, O,
The wintry sun the day
has clos’d,
And I’ll awa to
Nanie, O.
The westlin wind blaws
loud an’ shill;
The night’s baith
mirk and rainy, O;
But I’ll get my
plaid an’ out I’ll steal,
An’ owre the hill
to Nanie, O.
My Nanie’s charming,
sweet, an’ young;
Nae artfu’ wiles
to win ye, O:
May ill befa’
the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my
Nanie, O.
Her face is fair, her
heart is true;
As spotless as she’s
bonie, O:
The op’ning gowan,
wat wi’ dew,
Nae purer is than Nanie,
O.
A country lad is my
degree,
An’ few there
be that ken me, O;
But what care I how
few they be,
I’m welcome aye
to Nanie, O.
My riches à’s
my penny-fee,
An’ I maun guide
it cannie, O;
But warl’s gear
ne’er troubles me,
My thoughts are a’
my Nanie, O.
Our auld guidman delights
to view
His sheep an’
kye thrive bonie, O;
But I’m as blythe
that hands his pleugh,
An’ has nae care
but Nanie, O.
Come weel, come woe,
I care na by;
I’ll tak what
Heav’n will sen’ me, O:
Nae ither care in life
have I,
But live, an’
love my Nanie, O.
Song Green Grow The Rashes.
A Fragment.
Chor. Green
grow the rashes, O;
Green grow the rashes,
O;
The sweetest hours that
e’er I spend,
Are spent amang the
lasses, O.
There’s nought
but care on ev’ry han’,
In ev’ry hour
that passes, O:
What signifies the life
o’ man,
An’ ’twere
na for the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
The war’ly race
may riches chase,
An’ riches still
may fly them, O;
An’ tho’
at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne’er
enjoy them, O.
Green grow, &c.
But gie me a cannie
hour at e’en,
My arms about my dearie,
O;
An’ war’ly
cares, an’ war’ly men,
May a’ gae tapsalteerie,
O!
Green grow, &c.
For you sae douce, ye
sneer at this;
Ye’re nought but
senseless asses, O:
The wisest man the warl’
e’er saw,
He dearly lov’d
the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
Auld Nature swears,
the lovely dears
Her noblest work she
classes, O:
Her prentice han’
she try’d on man,
An’ then she made
the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
Song Wha Is That At My Bower-Door.
Tune “Lass,
an I come near thee.”
“Wha is that at
my bower-door?”
“O wha is it but
Findlay!”
“Then gae your
gate, ye’se nae be here:”
“Indeed maun I,”
quo’ Findlay;
“What mak’
ye, sae like a thief?”
“O come and see,”
quo’ Findlay;
“Before the morn
ye’ll work mischief:”
“Indeed will I,”
quo’ Findlay.
“Gif I rise and
let you in”
“Let me in,”
quo’ Findlay;
“Ye’ll keep
me waukin wi’ your din;”
“Indeed will I,”
quo’ Findlay;
“In my bower if
ye should stay”
“Let me stay,”
quo’ Findlay;
“I fear ye’ll
bide till break o’ day;”
“Indeed will I,”
quo’ Findlay.
“Here this night
if ye remain”
“I’ll remain,”
quo’ Findlay;
“I dread ye’ll
learn the gate again;”
“Indeed will I,”
quo’ Findlay.
“What may pass
within this bower”
“Let it pass,”
quo’ Findlay;
“Ye maun conceal
till your last hour:”
“Indeed will I,”
quo’ Findlay.