Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
27 . The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie
A
Was 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 cam doytin by.
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 langth poor Mailie silence brak. Appears to mourn my woefu’ case! My dying words attentive hear, An’ bear them to my Master dear. 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’! An’ aye was guid to me an’ mine; An’ now my dying charge I gie him, My helpless lambs, I trust them wi’ him. Frae dogs, an’ tods, an’ butcher’s knives! But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, An’ tent them duly, e’en an’ morn, Wi’ taets o’ hay an’ ripps o’ corn. 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 they’re dead. O, bid him breed him up wi’ care! An’ if he live to be a beast, To pit some havins in his breast! To stay content wi’ yowes at hame; An’ no to rin an’ wear his cloots, Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. Gude keep thee frae a tether string! O, may thou ne’er forgather up, Wi’ ony blastit, moorland toop; But aye keep mind to moop an’ mell, Wi’ sheep o’ credit like thysel’! I lea’e my blessin wi’ you baith: An’ when you think upo’ your mither, Mind to be kind to ane anither. To tell my master a’ my tale; An’ bid him burn this cursed tether, An’ for thy pains thou’se get my blather.” And clos’d her een amang the dead!