As Mailie, an’ her lambs thegither,
Was aeday nibbling on the tether,
Upon her clootshe coosta hitch,
An’ owreshe warsl’d in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc he camdoytinby.

Wi’ glowrin een, and lifted han’s
Poor Hughoclike a statue stan’s;
He sawher days were near-hand ended,
But, wae’s my heart! he could namend it!
He gaped wide, but naethingspak,
At langth poor Mailie silence brak.

“O thou, whaselamentable face
Appears to mourn my woefu’ case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An’ bearthem to my Master dear.

“Tell him, if e’eragain he keep
As mucklegearas 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’ butcher’s knives!
But gie them guidcow-milk their fill,
Tillthey be fitto fend themsel’;
An’ tentthem duly, e’enan’ 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’ reavean’ steal
At stacks o’ pease, orstocks o’ kail!
So may they, like their great forbears,
For mony a year come thro the shears:
So wives will giethem bits o’ bread,
An’ bairns greetfor them when they’re 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 pitsome havinsin his breast!

“An’ warn him-what I winnaname-
To stay content wi’ yowes at hame;
An’ noto rinan’ wear his cloots,
Like ithermenseless, graceless brutes.

“An’ neist, my yowie, silly thing,
Gudekeep thee fraea tether string!
O, may thou ne’er forgatherup,
Wi’ ony blastit, moorland toop;
Butaye keep mind to moopan’ 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,
Mindto be kind to aneanither.

“Now, honest Hughoc, dinnafail,
To tell my master a’my tale;
An’ bidhim burnthis cursed tether,
An’for thy pains thou’segetmy blather.”

This said, poor Mailieturn’d her head,
And clos’d her eenamangthe dead!