The Beauties of Burn's Poems/The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie

by Robert Burns (1759-1796)

For other versions of this work, see The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie.

The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie,

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE.

An unco mournfu' Tale.

As Mailie and her lambs thegither,
Was ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
And owre she warsl'd in the ditch;
There, groaning, dyin, she did lie,
When Hughoc^[1] he came doytin by.

 Wi' glowrin een, and lifted han's,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's!
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, waes my heart, he cou'dna mend it!
He gaped wide, but naething spak,
At length poor Mailie silence brak.

 O thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woeful case,
My dying-words attentive hear,
And bear it to my Master dear:

 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,
And let them wander at their will;
So may his flock increase and grow
To scores o' lambs, and packs of woo.

 Tell him, he was a master kin',
And aye was good to me and mine;
And now my dying-charge I gie him,
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him.

 O bid him save their harmless lives
Frae dogs, and tods, and butchers' knives;
Gie then o' gude cow-milk their fill,
Till they be fit to fend themsel;
And tent them duly, e'en and morn,
Wi' teats o' hay and rips o' corn.

And may they never learn the gates
Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets,
To slink thro' slaps, and reave and 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,
And bairns greet for them when they're dead.

 My poor toop-lamb, my son and heir,
O bid him breed him up wi' care;
And if he live to be a beast,
To pit some havins in his breast:
And warn him, what I winna name,
To stay content wi' yowes at hame,
And no to rin and wear his cloots,
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.

 And neist, my yowie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether-string!
O may thou ne'er foregather up
Wi' ony blastit moorland toop,
But aye keep mind to moop and mell
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel.

And now, my Bairns, wi' my last breath,
I leave my blessin wi' you baith:
And when you think upon your Mither,
Mind to be kind is ane-anither.

Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail
To tell my Master all my tale;
And bid him burn this cursed tether
And for thy pains thou's get my blether.

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head,
And clos'd her een amang the deadǃ

 

Divider from 'The Beauties of Burn's Poems' a chapbook printed in Falkirk in 1819

 

1. A neibour herd-callan.