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Robert Burns - Poor Mailie`s Elegy
Work rating: Low

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi` saut tears tricklin 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. 
 
Or, if he wanders up the howe, 
Her livin image in her yowe 
Comes 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! 
Come, join the melancholious croon 
O` Robin`s reed! 
His heart will never get aboon - 
His Mailie`s dead!
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