THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE, AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. Robert Burns Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T91548 Burns, Robert, 1759-1796. POEMS, CHIEFLY IN THE SCOTTISH DIALECT, BY ROBERT BURNS. Kilmarnock printed by John Wilson, M,DCC,LXXXVI. 1786 pp. 62-65. 240p.; 8⁰.

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THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE , THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE , AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE . AS MAILIE , an' her lambs thegither , 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 ly , When A neibor herd-callan . Hughoc he cam doytan by , Wi' glowrin een , an' lifted han's , Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's ; He saw her days were near hand ended , But , waes 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 tye 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 of 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 fend themsel ; An' tent them duely , e'en an' morn , Wi' taets o' hay an' ripps o' corn . An' may they never learn the gaets , Of ither vile , wanrestfu' Pets ! To flink 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 . 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 ay at ridin time , 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' onie blastet , moorlan 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 ye think upo' your Mither , Mind to be kind 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 thou'se get my blather . This said , poor Mailie turn'd her head An' clos'd her een amang the dead !