Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
28 . Poor Mailies Elegy
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! 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. 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. 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. Her living image in her yowe Comes bleating till him, owre the knowe, For bits o’ bread; An’ down the briny pearls rowe For Mailie dead. Wi’ tauted ket, an’ hairy hips; For her forbears were brought in ships, A bonier fleesh ne’er cross’d the clips Than Mailie’s dead. 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. 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!