The Complete Works. Robert Burns
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Название: The Complete Works

Автор: Robert Burns

Издательство: Bookwire

Жанр: Языкознание

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isbn: 4064066396541

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      “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 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 blather.”

      This said, poor Mailie turn’d her head,

       And clos’d her een amang the dead.

      FOOTNOTES:

       Table of Contents

      [2] A neibor herd-callan.

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

      [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.

      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’ crape,

       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:

       Table of Contents

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