But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin, An' cheat you yet.

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben! O wad ye tak a thought an' men'! Ye aiblins might-I dinna ken—

Still hae a stake

I'm wae to think upo' yon den,

Ev'n for your sake!

THE

DEATH AND DYING WORDS

OF

POOR MAILIE,

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE.

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE.

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither,
Were 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 came doytin by.

VOL. I.

* A neibor-herd callan.

F

Wi' glowrin een, an' 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 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 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 his flock increase, an' grow may

To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo' !

Tell him, he was a Master kin',
An' aye was guid to me and 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' butchers 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' teats 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.

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!
O, may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi' ony 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 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.