LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose,
Wi saut tears trickling down your nose;
Our bardies fate is at a close,
Past a remead!
The last, sad cape-stane o his woes;
Poor Mailies dead!
Its no the loss o warls gear,
That could sae bitter draw the tear,
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear
The mourning weed:
Hes 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,
She ran wi speed:
A friend mair faithfu neer cam nigh him,
Than Mailie dead.
I wat she was a sheep o sense,
An could behave hersel wi mense:
Ill sayt, she never brak a fence,
Thro thievish greed.
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence
Sin Mailies dead.
Or, if he wanders up the howe,
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.
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 neer crossd the clips
Than Mailies dead.
Wae worth the man wha first did shape
That vile, wanchancie thinga raip!
It maks guid fellows girn an gape,
Wi chokin dread;
An Robins 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
O Robins reed!
His heart will never get aboon
His Mailies dead!