[Footnote 2: A neibor herd-callan.]

III.

POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY.

[Burns, when he calls on the bards of Ayr and Doon to join in the lament for Mailie, intimates that he regards himself as a poet. Hogg calls it a very elegant morsel: but says that it resembles too closely "The Ewie and the Crooked Horn," to be admired as original: the shepherd might have remembered that they both resemble Sempill's "Life and death of the Piper of Kilbarchan."]

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose; Our bardie's fate is at a close, Past a' remead; The last sad cape-stane of his woes; Poor Mailie's dead.

It's no the loss o' warl's gear, That could sae bitter draw the tear, Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear The mourning weed; He's lost a friend and neebor dear, In Mailie dead.

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

I wat she was a sheep o' sense, An' could behave hersel wi' mense: I'll say't, she never brak a fence, Thro' thievish greed.

Our bardie, tamely, keeps the spence Sin' Mailie's dead.

Or, if he wonders up the howe, Her living image in her yowe Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, For bits o' bread; An' down the briny pearls rowe For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o' moorland tips,[3]

Wi' tawted ket, an hairy hips; For her forbears were brought in ships Frae yont the Tweed: A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips Than Mailie dead.

Wae worth the man wha first did shape That vile, wanchancie thing--a rape!

It maks guid fellows girn an' gape, 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!

Come, join the melancholious croon O' Robin's reed!

His heart will never get aboon!

His Mailie's dead!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: VARIATION.

'She was nae get o' runted rams, Wi' woo' like goats an' legs like trams; She was the flower o' Farlie lambs, A famous breed!

Now Robin, greetin, chews the hams O' Mailie dead.']

IV.

FIRST EPISTLE TO DAVIE,

A BROTHER POET

[In the summer of 1781, Burns, while at work in the garden, repeated this Epistle to his brother Gilbert, who was much pleased with the performance, which he considered equal if not superior to some of Allan Ramsay's Epistles, and said if it were printed he had no doubt that it would be well received by people of taste.]

--_January_, [1784.]

I.

While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, And hing us owre the ingle, I set me down to pa.s.s 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 folks' 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.

II.

It's hardly in a body's power To keep, at times, frae being sour, To see how things are shar'd; How best o' chiels are whiles in want.

While coofs on countless thousands rant, And ken na how to wair't; But Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, Tho' we hae little gear, We're fit to win our daily bread, As lang's we're hale and fier: "Muir spier na, nor fear na,"[4]

Auld age ne'er mind a feg, The last o't, the warst o't, Is only but to beg.

III.

To lie in kilns and barns at e'en When banes are craz'd, and bluid is thin, Is, doubtless, great distress!

Yet then content could make us blest; Ev'n then, sometimes we'd s.n.a.t.c.h a taste O' truest happiness.

The honest heart that's free frae a'

Intended fraud or guile, However Fortune kick the ba', Has ay some cause to smile: And mind still, you'll find still, A comfort this nae sma'; Nae mair then, we'll care then, Nae farther we can fa'.

IV.

What tho', like commoners of air, We wander out we know not where, But either house or hall?

Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, Are free alike to all.

In days when daisies deck the ground, And blackbirds whistle clear, With honest joy our hearts will bound To see the coming year: On braes when we please, then, We'll sit and sowth a tune; Syne rhyme till't we'll time till't, And sing't when we hae done.

V.

It's no in t.i.tles nor in rank; It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, To purchase peace and rest; It's no in makin muckle mair; It's no in books, it's no in lear, To make us truly blest; If happiness hae not her seat And centre in the breast, We may be wise, or rich, or great, But never can be blest: Nae treasures, nor pleasures, Could make us happy lang; The heart ay's the part ay That makes us right or wrang.

VI.

Think ye, that sic as you and I, Wha drudge and drive thro' wet an' dry, Wi' never-ceasing toil; Think ye, are we less blest than they, Wha scarcely tent us in their way, As hardly worth their while?

Alas! how aft, in haughty mood G.o.d's creatures they oppress!

Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, They riot in excess!

Baith careless and fearless Of either heaven or h.e.l.l!

Esteeming and deeming It's a' an idle tale!

VII.

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce; Nor make one scanty pleasures less, By pining at our state; And, even should misfortunes come, I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, An's thankfu' for them yet.