Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose, Our Bardie's fate is at a close, Past a' remeadǃ The last sad cap-stane of his woes, Poor Mailie's dead!
It's no the loss o' world's gear That could sae bitter draw a tear, Or mak our Bardie, dowie, wear The mourning weed; He's lost a friend and neibour dear, In Mailies 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, And cou'd 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.
Or, if he wanders up the howe, Iler living image in her yowe, Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, For bits o' bread; And down the briny pearls rowe, For Mailie dead
She was nae get o' moorland tips, Wi' tawted kit, and hairy hips; For her forbears were brought in ships Frae yont the Tweed: A bonnier flesh ne'er cross'd the clips Than Mailie's dead.
Wae worth the man that first did shape That vile wanchansie thing-a rape It maks gude fellows girn and gape, Wi' chunkin dread! And Robin's bannet wave wi' crape, For Mailie dead,
O a' ye bards on bonny Doon, And wha on Ayr your chaunters tune, Come join your melancholy croon O Robin's reed; His heart will never get aboon, His Mailie's dead!
Divider from 'The Beauties of Burn's Poems' a chapbook printed in Falkirk in 1819
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