DRAWN BY R. WESTALL, R.A. · ENGRAVED BY W. FINDEN ·
PUBLISHED BY JOHN SHARPE, DUKE STREET, PICCADILLY,
AUG. 1, 1824.
In this tender engraving a shepherd pauses in alarm at the edge of a ditch where a sheep, Mailie, the poet’s beloved pet ewe, lies fallen, injured and dying. The surrounding hills rise under heavy clouds, giving the moment a tragic quietness. Her lambs stand nearby, helpless.
This illustration captures the opening scene of Robert Burns’s deeply affectionate pastoral poem “The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie”, where the ewe speaks her final wishes to the shepherd boy Hughoc. Burns uses gentle humor, rustic Scots dialect, and genuine emotion to elevate a simple farm mishap into a moving reflection on kindness, responsibility, and rural life.
The follow-up poem, “Poor Mailie’s Elegy,” serves as a heartfelt tribute, lamenting not simply the loss of livestock, but the passing of a true companion. Together, these pieces show Burns at his warmest and most humane, blending light satire with sincere affection for animals and the people who care for them.
From Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect
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’ glowrin een, an’ lifted han’s,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan’s;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, waes my heart! he couldna mend it!
He gaped wide, but naething spak;
At length poor Mailie silence brak.
“O, thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my wofu’ case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An’ bear them to my Master dear.
‘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;
So may his flock increase, an’ grow
To scores o’ lambs, an’ packs o’ woo’!
‘Tell him, he was a Master kin’,
An’ aye was guid 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, an’ 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’ rips o’ corn.
‘An’ may they never learn the gates
O’ ither vile warestfu’ 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.
‘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 menselees, 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 aye keep mind to moop an’ mell,
Wi’ sheep o’ credit like thysel’!
An’ 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,
An’ clos’d her een amang the dead.
Poor Mailie’s Elegy
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 o’ 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 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,
An’ could behave hersel wi’ mense:
I’ll say’t she never brak a fence,
Thro’ thievish greed.
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence
Sin’ Mailie’s dead.
Or, if he wanders 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,
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’ 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 dead.