Robert Burns: How To Know Him Part 2

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 blast.i.t 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]

POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' saut tears tricklin' down your nose, [salt]

Our bardie's fate is at a close, Past a' remead; [remedy]

The last sad cape-stane of his woes-- [cope-stone]

Poor Mailie's dead!

It's no the loss o' warl's gear [worldly lucre]

That could sae bitter draw the tear, Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear [downcast]

The mourning weed: He's lost a friend and neibor dear In Mailie dead.

Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him; A lang half-mile she could descry him; Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, She ran wi' speed: A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him Than Mailie dead.

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, [wot]

An' could behave hersel wi' mense; [manners]

I'll say't, she never brak a fence Thro' thievish greed.

Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence [parlor]

Sin' Mailie's dead. [Since]

Or, if he wanders up the howe, [glen]

Her living image in her yowe [ewe-lamb]

Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, [knoll]

For bits o' bread, An' down the briny pearls rowe [roll]

For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o' moorland tups, [issue]

Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips; [matted fleece]

For her forbears were brought in ships Frae 'yont the Tweed; A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips [fleece, shears]

Than Mailie's, dead.

Wae worth the man wha first did shape [Woe to]

That vile wanchancie thing--a rape! [dangerous]

It maks guid fellows girn an' gape, [growl]

Wi' chokin' dread; An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' c.r.a.pe For Mailie dead.

O a' ye bards on bonnie Doon!

An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune! [bagpipes]

Come, join the melancholious croon O' Robin's reed; His heart will never get aboon! [rejoice]

His Mailie's dead!

How long he continued to mourn for Ellison Begbie, it is hard to say; but the three following songs, inspired, it would seem, by three different girls, testify at once to his power of recuperation and the rapid maturing of his talent. All seem to have been written between the date of his return from Irvine and the death of his father.

MARY MORISON

O Mary, at thy window be, It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!

Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor: How blythely wad I bide the stoure, [bear, struggle]

A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen, when to the trembling string [Last night]

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', [went]

To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw: Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, [fine]

And yon the toast of a' the town, [the other]

I sigh'd, and said amang them a', 'Ye are na Mary Morison.'

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?

Or canst thou break that heart of his, Whase only faut is loving thee? [fault]

If love for love thou wilt na gie, At least be pity to me shown!

A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison.

MY NANNIE O

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 'Mang moors an' mosses many, O, The wintry sun the day has clos'd, And I'll awa' to Nannie, O.

The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill, [western, keen]

The night's baith mirk and rainy, O; [both dark]

But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal, An' owre the hill to Nannie, O. [over]

My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young: Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O: May ill befa' the flattering tongue That wad beguile my Nannie, O.