Page:Beauties of Burn's poems.pdf/99

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So may his flock increase and grow
To scores o' lambs, and packs of woo.

 Tell him, he was a master kin',
And aye was good to me and mine;
And now my dying-charge I gie him,
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him.

 O bid him save their harmless lives
Frae dogs, and tods, and butchers' knives;
Gie then o' gude cow-milk their fill,
Till they be fit to fend themsel;
And tent them duly, e'en and morn,
Wi' teats o' hay and rips o' corn.

And may they never learn the gates
Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets,
To slink thro' slaps, and reave and 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,
And bairns greet for them when they're dead.

 My poor toop-lamb, my son and heir,
O bid him breed him up wi' care;
And if he live to be a beast,
To pit some havins in his breast:
And warn him, what I winna name,
To stay content wi' yowes at hame,
And no to rin and wear his cloots,
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.

 And neist, my yowie, silly thing,
Gude keep thee frae a tether-string!
O may thou ne'er foregather up
Wi' ony blastit moorland toop,

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