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Robert Burns - The Death And Dying Words Of Poor Mailie
Work rating: Low

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 lie, 
When Hughoc he cam 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, wae`s 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 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` butchers` 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 gates, 
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 meseless, 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, 
An` closed her een amang the dead!
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