Wi glowrin' een, an' lifted han's, [staring]
Poor Hughoc like a statue stan's;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But wae's my heart! he could na mend it!
He gapèd wide, but naething spak;
At length poor Mailie silence brak:--

'O thou, whase lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woefu' case!
My dying words attentive hear,
An' bear them to my Master dear.
'Tell him, if e'er again he keep [own]
As muckle gear as buy a sheep,-- [much money]
O bid him never tie them mair
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair!
Bat ca' them out to park or hill, [drive]
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]