poor mailie's elegy
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;
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:
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,
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:
i'll say't, she never brak a fence,
thro' thievish greed.
our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence
sin' mailie's dead.