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