A Robert Burns Poem

Poor Molly
By Robert Burns
(Translation by Richard A. Burns[1])

As Molly and her lambs, together,
Were one day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her hoof she cast a hitch
And over she struggled in the ditch.
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughie came a-blundering by.

With glowering eyes and lifted hands,
Poor Hughie like a statue stands;
He saw her days were almost ended,
But–woe, my heart–he could not mend it!
His mouth gaped wide, but nothing spoke,
At length, poor Molly the silence broke.

“Oh, Hugh, with shocked, lamenting face
Come close to mourn my woeful case!
My dying words attentive hear,
And bear them to my Master dear.

“Tell him, if e’er again he keep
A shilling aside to buy a sheep,
Oh, bid him never tie them there
With wicked strings of hemp or hair!
But lead them out to park or hill,
And let them wander at their will.
So, may his flock increase and grow
To scores of lambs and packs of wool!

"Tell him he was a Master, kind,
And mostly good to me and mine,
And now my dying charge I give him,
My helpless lambs, I trust them with him.

"Oh, bid him save their harmless lives.
From dogs and foxes and butchers’ knives!
But give them cow milk, their good fill,
Till they be fit to fend themselves.
And tend them duly, eve and morn,
With tufts of hay and heaps of corn.

"Oh, may they never learn the ways
Of other vile, restless strays,
To slink through slats t’plunder an’ steal
His stacks of peas and stocks of kale.
So may they, like their great forebears,
For many a year come through the sheers.
Good wives will give them bits of bread,
And bairns weep for them when they're dead.

"My poor ram-lamb, my son and heir,
Oh, bid him breed him up with care!
And if he lives to be a beast,
Please put some sense into his breast.
And warn him, when mating-fevers come,
To stay content with ewes at home
And not to run, wear out his hooves,
Like other ill-bred, graceless brutes.

"Lambs, may you ne’er take up with trash
As ones accursed an’ low of class.
But always mind to eat and meld
With sheep of credit like yourselves.
And next, young ewes, the mainest thing,
God keep you from a tether string!

"Oh, young ones, with my last short breath,
I leave my blessing with you both.
Be kind, be fair, remember mother,
Get angry not at one another.

"Now, honest Hughie, do not fail,
To tell my Master of my tale,
And bid him burn this cursed tether,
And for your pains, you'll get my leather."

This said, poor Molly turned her head,
And closed her eyes among the dead.


[1] Source used: Robert Burns Poems in Scots and English; Edited by Donald Low; 1985, 1993; Charles E. Tuttle Co., Inc., Vermont; page 32-33; “The Death and Dying Words of Poor Mailie, The Author's Only Pet Ewe, An Uncle’s Mournful Tale.”