To ken what French mischief was brewin',
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin';
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph,
If Venus yet had got his nose off;
Or how the collieshangie works
Atween the Russians and the Turks;
Or if the Swede, before he halt,
Would play anither Charles the Twalt :
If Denmark, anybody spak o't;
Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't;
How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin';
How libbet Italy was singin';
If Spaniards, Portuguese, or Swiss
Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss :
Or how our merry lads at hame,
In Britain's court, kept up the game:
How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him!
Was managing St. Stephen's quorum;
If Sleekit Chatham Will was livin',
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ;
How Daddie Burke the plea was cookin',
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin';
How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd,
Or if bare a-s yet were tax'd;
The news o' princes, dukes, and earls,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girls;
If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales,
Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails;
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser,
And no a perfect kintra cooser.
A' this and mair I never heard of,
And but for you I might despair'd of.
So gratefu', back your news I send you,
And pray, a' guid things may attend you!
Tenderest pledge of future bliss,
Dearest tie of young connexions,
Love's first snowdrop, virgin kiss!
Speaking silence, dumb confession,
Passion's birth, and infant's play,
Dove-like fondness, chaste concession,
Glowing dawn of brighter day.
Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action,
When lingering lips no more must join,
What words can ever speak affection
So thrilling and sincere as thine !
THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR
THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE.
S Mailie and her lambs thegither
Was ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
And owre she warsled in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc he cam doytin' by.
Wi' glowring een, and lifted han's,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, waes my heart! he couldna 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,
And bear them to my master dear.
"Tell him, if e'er again he keep
As muckle gear as buy a sheep,
Oh, bid him never tie them mair
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair!
But ca' them out to park or hill,
And let them wander at their will;
So may his flock increase, and grow
To scores o' lambs, and packs o' woo' !
"Tell him he was a master kin',
And aye was guid to me and mine;
And now my dying charge I gie him-
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him.
"Oh, bid him save their harmless lives
Frae dogs, and tods, and butchers' knives!
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill,
Till they be fit to fend themsel:
And tent them duly, e'en and morn,
Wi' teats o' hay, and ripps o' corn.
"And may they never learn the gaets Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets!
To slink through slaps, and reave and steal
At stacks o' peas or stocks o' kail,
So may they, like their great forbears,
For mony a year come through the shears:
So wives will gie them bits o' bread,
And bairns greet for them when they're dead.
"My poor toop-lamb, my son and heir,
Oh, bid him breed him up wi' care!
And if he live to be a beast,
To pit some havins in his breast!
And warn him, what I winna name,
To stay content wi' yowes at hame :
And no to rin and wear his clouts,
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.
"And neist my yowie, silly thing,
Guid keep thee frae a tether string!
Oh, may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop,
But aye keep mind to moop and mell
Wi' sheep of credit like thysel!
"And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath I lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith:
And 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;
And bid him burn this cursed tether,
And, for thy pains, thou's get my blether."
This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head,
And closed her een amang the dead.
AMENT 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 of 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 and neibor dear
In Mailie dead.
Through a' the toun 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,
And could behave hersel wi' mense:
I'll say't, she never brak a fence
Through 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 to him, owre the knowe,
For bits o' bread;
And down the briny pearls rowe
For Mailie dead.
She was nae get o' moorland tips,
Wi' tawted ket, and hairy hips;
For her forbears were brought in ships
Frae yont the Tweed:
A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips
Than Mailie dead.
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