| |
| 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, | 5 |
| 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! | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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! | 20 |
| 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’, | 25 |
| 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! | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| 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: | 40 |
| 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, | 45 |
| 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. | 50 |
| |
| “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, | 55 |
| 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. | 60 |
| |
| “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, | 65 |
| And clos’d her een amang the dead! | |
| |
