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.