Analysis of Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie, The
Robert Burns 1759 (Alloway) – 1796 (Dumfries)
The Author's Only Pet Yowe
An Unco Mournfu' Tale
As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither,
Was 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, and lifted han's
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 gaped 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
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 an' 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' taets o' hay an' ripps o' corn.
"An' may they never learn the gates,
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' 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 mony a year come thro' the shears:
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 meseless, graceless brutes.
"An' neist, 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'!
"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,
An' closed her een amang the dead!
Scheme | A B CCDDEE FXXXGG HHCC IICCJJCA XXKK XXJBLL XXXBFXMM CCXXXKFF NNXIXB OOCC BBCC MM |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 0101011 1111 111011 1111001010 01011101 1111001 11010111 111111 1110101 111011 110101110 111111111 111111 1111101 11101001 0111111 11010101 11111101 111100111 11011101 11110111 11011111 11111111 11110111 11110111 11111111 11110101 11111111 111101111 110111111 11111101 11111101 11111111 1111111 111101111 11111111 11110101 11111 11111111 11111111 1111111 110011101 11111111 11111111 11111111 11111111 11111101 11110011 1111111 11101111 11111111 111101 1111101 11110101 111111 11111 11111111 1111011 01111111 11111111 1111111 1111111 110111 11110011 11111110 1111111110 1111101 1101101 |
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 2,425 |
Words | 474 |
Sentences | 22 |
Stanzas | 14 |
Stanza Lengths | 1, 1, 6, 6, 4, 8, 4, 6, 8, 8, 6, 4, 4, 2 |
Lines Amount | 68 |
Letters per line (avg) | 26 |
Words per line (avg) | 7 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 125 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 34 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 28, 2023
- 2:25 min read
- 177 Views
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