An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin, Some luckless hour will send him linkin, To your black pit; But, faith! he'll turn a corner jinkin, An' cheat you yet. But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben! Still hae a stake— I'm wae to think upo' yon den, DRAWN BY R WESTALL RA. ENGRAVED BY W. FINDEN; PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE, DUKE STREET, PICCADILLY; AUG.1.1824. THE Death and Dying Words of poor Mailie, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted han's, 'O, thou, whase lamentable face 1 A neebor herd-callan. 'Tell him, he was a Master kin', 'An' may they never learn the gates Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets! To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal, But aye keep mind to moop an' mell, 'An' now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith: |