or, if he wanders up the howe,
her living image in her yowe
 es 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 ne'er cross'd the clips
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;
an' robin's bonnet wave wi' crape
for mailie dead.
o, a' ye bards on bonie doon!
an' wha on ayr your chanters tune!
 e, join the melancholious croon
o' robin's reed!
his heart will never get aboon—
his mailie's dead!