flurry

smoky ; scorched wig smutty

XVII

D'ye mind that day when in a bizz
Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz

squinted

'Mang better folk; An' sklented on the man of Uzz

Your spitefu' joke?

loosed; scold of all

XVIII

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall,
An' brak him out o' house an' hal',
While scabs an' botches did him gall,
Wi' bitter claw;
An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd wicked scaul-
Was warst ava?

XIX

fighting

beat; Lowland

But a' your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an' fechtin fierce,
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce

Down to this time,

Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,

Hoofs

roistering

In prose or rhyme.

XX

An' now, Auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin,
A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin,

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE: AN UNCO MOURNFU'

TALE

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither,
Was ae day nibblin on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch:
There, groanin, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc he cam doytin by.

Mollie

together

one

hoof; looped

floundered

doddering

staring

woe

own

much money

drive

foxes

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 may his flock increase, an' grow
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'!

'Tell him, he was a Master kin', An'

ay 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, Free 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.

look after tend

small quantities;

handfuls

ways
restless

breaches

plants

'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. weep

'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 other menseless, graceless brutes.

'An' niest, my yowie, silly thing;
Gude keep thee frae a tether string!
O, may thou ne'er forgather up,
Wi' onie blastit, moorland toop;
But ay keep mind to moop an' mell,
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel!

ancestors

tup

conduct

will not

ewes

unmannerly

ewekin; helpless

make friends

nibble;
meddle

bladder

eyes

remedy

'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.

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!

POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY

I

LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose,

Wi' saut tears tricklin 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!

II

worldly pelf

It's no the loss of warl's gear,

That could sae bitter draw the tear,