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 of 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 and neibor dear In Mailie dead. Thro’ a’ the toun 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 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’ moorland tups, Wi’ tawted ket, an’ hairy hips; For her forbears were brought in ships Frae yont the Tweed: A bonnier fleesh ne’er cross’d the clips Than Mailie’s, dead. Wae worth the man wha first did shape That vile wanchancie thing—a rape! 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 bonnie 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 dead! THE BARDS OF AYR TO W. SIMPSON, 1785 I gat your letter, winsome Willie; Wi’ gratefu’ heart I thank you brawlie; Tho’ I maun say’t, I wad be silly, An’ unco vain, Should I believe, my coaxin’ billie, Your flatterin’ strain. My senses wad be in a creel, Should I but dare a hope to speel, Wi’ Allan, or wi’ Gilbertfield, The braes o’ fame; Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel, A deathless name. Yet when a tale comes i’ my head, Or lasses gie my heart a screed, As whiles they’re like to be my dead, (O sad disease!) I kittle up my rustic reed; It gies me ease. Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu’ fain, She’s gotten poets o’ her ain, Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, But tune their lays, Till echoes a’ resound again Her weel-sung praise.