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
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives.
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill,
Till they be fit to feed themsel';
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn,
Wi' teats o' hay, an' rips o' corn.

"An' may they never learn the gaets Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets! To slink thro' slaps, an' reve, an' steal, At stacks o' peas, or stocks o' kail. So may they, like their great forbears, For monie a year come thro' the shears; So wives will gie them bits o' bread, An' bairns greet for them when they're dead

"My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, O, bid him breed him up wi' care!

Au', 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 ither menseless, graceless brutes.

"An' niest my yowie, silly thing. Gude keep thee frae a tether-string.

O' may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop;

But ay keep mind to moop an' mell
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel'!

"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 kin' 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, thous'e get my blether.

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head An' clos'd her een amang the dead.

POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY

LAMENT 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 cap-stane o' his woes'

Poor Mail e'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 neebor dear,
In Mailie dead.

Thro' a' the toun see 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,
An' could behave hersel' wi' mense;
I'll say't, she never brak a fence,
Thro' 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 o'er the knowe,
For bits o' bread;

An' down the briny pearls rowe,
For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o' moorland tips,
Wi' tawted ket an' hairy hips;
For her forbears were brought in ships
Frae yont the Tweed:

A bonier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips
Than Mailie dead.

Wae worth the man wha first did shape

That vile, wanchancie thing

a rape!

It maks guid fellows girn an' gape,

Wi' chokin' dread;

An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, For Mailie dead.

, a' ye bards on bonie Doon!
An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune
Come, join the melancholious croon
O' Robin's reed!

His heart will never get aboon
His Mailie dead!

BOOK IV.

HUMOROUS, SATIRICAL, EPIGRAMMATICAI,

AND MISCELLANEOUS.

TAM O'SHANTER.

A TALE.

Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this buke.

GAWIN DOUGLAS.

WHEN chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors, neebors meet,
As market days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate;
While we set bousing at the nappy,
An' gettin' fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gath'ring her brows, like gath'ring storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam O'Shanter,
As he, frae Ayr, ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses)