Lament in rhyme, lament in prose,
Wi’ sauttears trickling down your nose;
Our bardie’s fate is at a close,
Past a’ remead!
The last, sad cape-stane o’ his woes;
Poor Mailie’s dead!
It’s nothe loss o’ warl’s gear,
That could saebitter draw the tear,
Ormakour bardie, dowie, wear
The mourning weed:
He’s lost a friend an’ neebordear
In Mailie dead.
Thro’ a’ the town she trotted byhim;
A langhalf-mile she could descry him;
Wi’ kindly bleat, when she did spy him,
She ran wi’ speed:
A friend mairfaithfu’ ne’er camnigh him,
Than Mailie dead.
I watshe was a sheep o’ sense,
An’ could behave hersel’ wi’ mense:
I’ll say’t, she never braka fence,
Thro’ thievish greed.
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence
Sin’Mailie’s dead.
Or, if he wanders up the howe,
Her living image in her yowe
Comes bleating tillhim, owrethe knowe,
For bits o’ bread;
An’ down the briny pearls rowe
For Mailie dead.
She was naeget o’ moorland tips,
Wi’ tauted ket, an’ hairy hips;
For her forbearswere brought in ships,
Frae’yontthe Tweed.
A bonier fleeshne’er cross’d the clips
Than Mailie’s dead.
Wae worththe man wha first did shape
That vile, wanchanciething-a raip!
It maks guidfellows girnan’ gape,
Wi’ chokin dread;
An’ Robin’s bonnet wave wi’crape
For Mailiedead.
O, a’ye bards on bonieDoon!
An’whaon Ayr your chanters tune!
Come, join the melancholious croon
O’Robin’s reed!
His heart will never getaboon-
His Mailie’s dead!