AS Mailie, an her lambs thegither,
Was ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An owre she warsld in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc he cam doytin by.
Wi glowrin een, and lifted hans
Poor Hughoc like a statue stans;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, waes 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 eer 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 butchers knives!
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill,
Till they be fit to fend themsel;
An tent them duly, een 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 theyre 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 himwhat 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 neer 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 leae 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 thouse get my blather.
This said, poor Mailie turnd her head,
And closd her een amang the dead!
