Читать книгу Robert Burns: How To Know Him - William Allan Neilson - Страница 7

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As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither, together

Was ae day nibbling on the tether, one

Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, hoof, looped

An' owre she warsled in the ditch; over, floundered

There, groaning, dying, she did lie,

When Hughoc he cam doytin by. doddering

Wi glowrin' een, an' lifted han's, staring

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 gapèd 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 own

As muckle gear as buy a sheep—much money

O bid him never tie them mair

Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair!

Bat ca' them out to park or hill, drive

An' let them wander at their will;

So may his flock increase, an' grow

To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo'! wool

‘Tell him he was a Master kin',

An' aye was guid to me an' mine;

An' now my dying charge I gie him, give

My helpless lambs, I trust them wi' him.

‘O bid him save their harmless lives

Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives! foxes

But gie them guid cow-milk their fill,

Till they be fit to fend themsel: look after

An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, tend

Wi' teats o' hay an' ripps o' corn. bunches, handfuls

‘An' may they never learn the gates ways

Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets—restless

To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal, holes in fences

At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. plants

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. weep

‘My poor tup-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! put, behavior

An' warn him, what I winna name, will not

To stay content wi' yowes at hame; ewes

An' no to rin an' wear his cloots, hoofs

Like ither menseless graceless brutes. unmannerly

‘An neist my yowie, silly thing, next

Gude keep thee frae a tether string!

O may thou ne'er forgather up make friends

Wi' ony blastit moorland tup;

But ay keep mind to moop an' mell, nibble, meddle

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 blether.’ bladder

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head,

An' closed her een amang the dead! eyes