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But aye keep mind to moop and mell
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel.

And now, my Bairns, wi' my last breath,
I leave my blessin wi' you baith:
And when you think upon your Mither,
Mind to be kind is ane-anither.

Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail
To tell my Master all my tale;
And bid him burn this cursed tether
And for thy pains thou's get my blether.

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head,
And clos'd her een amang the deadǃ

 

Divider from 'The Beauties of Burn's Poems' a chapbook printed in Falkirk in 1819

 

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' remeadǃ
The last sad cap-stane of his woes,
Poor Mailie's dead!

It's no the loss o' world's gear
That could sae bitter draw a tear,
Or mak our Bardie, dowie, wear
The mourning weed;
He's lost a friend and neibour dear,
In Mailies dead.