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POEM S.

WINTER,

A DIRGE.

THE wintry west extends his blast,

And hail and rain does blaw;

Or the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:

While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,

And roars frae bank to brae;

And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"*

The joyless winter day

Let others fear, to me more dear

Than all the pride of May :

The tempest's howl, it sooths my soul,
My griefs it seems to join ;

The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!

* Dr. Young

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme

These woes of mine fulfil,

Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,

Because they are Thy will! Then all I want (O, do thou grant

This one request of mine!) Since to enjoy thou dost deny, Assist me to resign.

With the exception of one or two songs, this Dirge is the earliest of all the Poet's compositions: Gilbert Burns calls it a juvenile production, but assigns no date; it was written before the death of his father. That Burns thought well of it himself we have his own testimony. In his memoranda of April 1784, he says, "There is scarcely any earthly object gives me more—I do not know if I should call it pleasure -but something which exalts me-something which enraptures me-than to walk in the sheltered side of a wood, or high plantation, in a cloudy winter-day, and hear the stormy wind howling among the trees and raving over the plain. It is my best season for devotion; my mind is rapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him who, in the pompous language of the Hebrew bard, walks on the wings of the wind.' In one of these seasons, just after a train of misfortunes, I composed Winter, a Dirge.'" Sorrow gave a melancholy colouring to the Poet's thoughts early in life, and induced him to love the sublimity of the tempestuous sky, and the grandeur of the shaken woods.

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6

THE

DEATH AND DYING WORDS

OF

POOR MAILIE,

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE.

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE.

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither,
Were 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' glowring e'en an' lifted han's,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stands ;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, waes my heart! he could na mend it!
He gaped wide but naething spak—
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.

A neibor herd-callan.

"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; his flock increase, and grow

So may

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

"Tell him he was a master kin'
An' ay was gude to me and 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, and 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' teats 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.

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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' ony 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 kin' 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."
This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head,

And clos'd her een amang the dead.

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