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