| |
| LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose, | |
| Wi’ saut tears trickling down your nose; | |
| Our bardie’s fate is at a close, | |
| Past a’ remead! | |
| The last, sad cape-stane o’ his woes; | 5 |
| Poor Mailie’s dead! | |
| |
| It’s no the loss o’ warl’s gear, | |
| That could sae bitter draw the tear, | |
| Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear | |
| The mourning weed: | 10 |
| He’s lost a friend an’ neebor dear | |
| In Mailie dead. | |
| |
| Thro’ a’ the town she trotted by him; | |
| A lang half-mile she could descry him; | |
| Wi’ kindly bleat, when she did spy him, | 15 |
| She ran wi’ speed: | |
| A friend mair faithfu’ ne’er cam nigh him, | |
| Than Mailie dead. | |
| |
| I wat she was a sheep o’ sense, | |
| An’ could behave hersel’ wi’ mense: | 20 |
| I’ll say’t, she never brak a fence, | |
| Thro’ thievish greed. | |
| Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence | |
| Sin’ Mailie’s dead. | |
| |
| Or, if he wanders up the howe, | 25 |
| Her living image in her yowe | |
| Comes bleating till him, owre the knowe, | |
| For bits o’ bread; | |
| An’ down the briny pearls rowe | |
| For Mailie dead. | 30 |
| |
| She was nae get o’ moorland tips, | |
| Wi’ tauted ket, an’ hairy hips; | |
| For her forbears were brought in ships, | |
| Frae ’yont the Tweed. | |
| A bonier fleesh ne’er cross’d the clips | 35 |
| Than Mailie’s dead. | |
| |
| Wae worth the man wha first did shape | |
| That vile, wanchancie thing—a raip! | |
| It maks guid fellows girn an’ gape, | |
| Wi’ chokin dread; | 40 |
| An’ Robin’s bonnet wave wi’ crape | |
| For Mailie dead. | |
| |
| O, a’ ye bards on bonie Doon! | |
| An’ wha on Ayr your chanters tune! | |
| Come, join the melancholious croon | 45 |
| O’ Robin’s reed! | |
| His heart will never get aboon— | |
| His Mailie’s dead! | |
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