Pr Mailies Eleg
poor mailie's elegy
lament in rhyme, lament in prose,
wi' saut tears trig 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 m weed:
he's lost a friend an' neebor dear
in mailie dead.
thro' a' the towrotted 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 igh 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.
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 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, wancie thing—a raip!
it maks guid fellows girn an' gape,
wi' chokin dread;
an' robin's bo wave wi' crape
for mailie dead.
o, a' ye bards on bonie doon!
an' wha on ayr your ters tune!
e, join the melancholious
o' robin's reed!
his heart will never get aboon—
his mailie's dead!
lament in rhyme, lament in prose,
wi' saut tears trig 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 m weed:
he's lost a friend an' neebor dear
in mailie dead.
thro' a' the towrotted 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 igh 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.
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 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, wancie thing—a raip!
it maks guid fellows girn an' gape,
wi' chokin dread;
an' robin's bo wave wi' crape
for mailie dead.
o, a' ye bards on bonie doon!
an' wha on ayr your ters tune!
e, join the melancholious
o' robin's reed!
his heart will never get aboon—
his mailie's dead!