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| Upon her cloot she caste a hitch, An’ owre she warsl’d in the ditch: There, groaning, dying, she did lie, |
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| As Mailie, and her lamb together, Was one day nibbling on the tether, |
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| When Hughoc he came doytan by. He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, wi’ heavy heart, he could na’ mend it! He gaped wide, but naething spak, |
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| At length poor Mailie silence brak. O thou, whose lamentable face, Appears to mourn my woefu’ case!
My dying words attentive hear, An’ bear them to my Master dear.
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. |
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| O, bid him save their harmless lives, Frae dogs an’ tods, an’ butchers’ knives! But gie them guid cow-milk their fill,
Til they be fit to fend themsel; An’ tend them duely, e’en and morn,Wi’ tufts o’ hay an’ ripps o’ corn.
My poor tup-lamb, my son an’ heir, O, bid him breed him up wi’ care! |
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An’ if he live to be a beast, To put some sense within his breast! An’ warn him, what I winna name, |
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| To stay content wi’ yowes at hame; An’ no to run and wear his cloots, |
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Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. An’ next my yowie, silly thing, |
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| God keep thee frae a tether string! |
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| O, may thou ne’er foregather up, Wi’ onie blastet, moorland tup; |
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| But ay keep mind to mop and mell, Wi’ sheep o’ credit like thyself! |
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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. | |
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| 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 bladder! |
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