‘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 butcher’s knives!

But gie them guid cow-milk their fill,

Till they be fit to fend themsel;

An tent them duly, e’er, 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 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 – 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 niest, my yowie, silly thing,

Gude keep thee frae a tether string!

O, may thou ne’er forgather up,

Wi onie blastit, moorland 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 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 thouse get my blether.’

This said, poor Mailie turn’d her head,

An clos’d her een amang the dead!

EPITAPH ON MY HONOURED FATHER

O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains,

Draw near with pious rev’rence, and attend!

Here lie the loving husband’s dear remains,

The tender father, and the gen’rous friend.

The pitying heart that felt for human woe,

The dauntless heart that fear’d no human pride,

The friend of man, to vice alone a foe;

‘For ev’n his failings lean’d to virtue’s side.’

EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET

While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw,

And bar the doors wi drivin snaw,

And hing us owre the ingle,

I set me down to pass the time,

And spin a verse or twa o rhyme,

In hamely, westlin jingle:

While frosty winds blaw in the drift,

Ben to the chimla lug,

I grudge a wee the great-folk’s gift,

That live sae bien an snug:

I tent less, and want less

Their roomy fire-side;

But hanker, and canker,

To see their cursed pride.

It’s hardly in a body’s pow’r,

To keep, at times, frae being sour,

To see how things are shar’d;

How best o chiels are whyles in want,

While coofs on countless thousands rant.

And ken na how to ware’t;

But, Davie, lad, ne’er fash your head