Page:Beauties of Burn's poems.pdf/101

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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,
And cou'd 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,
Iler living image in her yowe,
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe,
For bits o' bread;
And down the briny pearls rowe,
For Mailie dead

She was nae get o' moorland tips,
Wi' tawted kit, and hairy hips;
For her forbears were brought in ships
Frae yont the Tweed:
A bonnier flesh ne'er cross'd the clips
Than Mailie's dead.

Wae worth the man that first did shape
That vile wanchansie thing-a rape
It maks gude fellows girn and gape,
Wi' chunkin dread!
And Robin's bannet wave wi' crape,
For Mailie dead,

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