“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' 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 guid cow-milk their fill, Till they be fit to fend themsel'; An' tent them duly, 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 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.
“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 ither menseless, graceless brutes.
“An' neist, my yowie, silly thing, 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'!
“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.
“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, And clos'd her een amang the dead!
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 cape-stane o' his woes; Poor Mailie'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 an' neebor dear In Mailie dead.
Thro' a' the town she 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.