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 of his woes;
Poor Mailie 's dead!
Lament in rhyme, a’ ye wha dow,
Your elbuck rub an’ claw your pow,
Poor Robin ‘s ruin’d stick an’ stow
Past a’ remead:
His only, darling, AIN PET YOWE
Poor Mailie ‘s dead!

It 's no the loss o' warl's gear,
That could sae bitter draw the tear,
Or make our Bardie, dowie, wear
The mourning weed:
He 's lost a friend and neebor dear
In Mailie dead.
Ochon, alais, his luckless lot!
In losin her he lost a NOTE;
He sell’d her lambs to buy a coat
A mournin weed;
He ‘s saxpence poorer than a groat
Sin Mailie ‘s 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 came nigh him,
Than Maillie dead.

She was nae get o runted rams
Wi’woo like gaits, and legs like trams;
She eas the flow’r o’ Fairlie lambs
A famous breed!
Now Robin greetan chows the hams
O’ Maillie dead!

O Fortune, how thou does us mock!
He thought in her he saw a stock:
Would heave him up, wi hyvie folk
To cock his head;
Now a’ his hopes are gane like smoke
For Maillie ‘s dead!

Wae worth the man wha first did shape
That wyle, wunchancy thing, a rape,
It maks good fellows girn an’ gape
Wi choakin dread,
An’ Robin’s bonnet wave wi’ crape
For Maillie ‘s dead!

Ye BARDIES a’, in cantie KYLE,
Wi’ saut tears trickling down like oil;
Come join the melancholious style
O ROBIN’s reed;
For never, never mair he’ll smile

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
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe,
For bits o' bread;
An' down the briny pearls rowe
For Mailie dead.

She was nae get o' moorlan 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 raep!
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 AIRE your chanters tune!
Come, join the melancholious croon
O' Robin's reed!
His heart will never get aboon!
His Mailie 's dead!