#039; speed:
a friend mair faithfu' ne'er igh 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, nely, keeps the spence
sin' mailie's dead.
or, if he wanders up the howe,
her living image in her yowe
es bleating till him, owre the knowe,
for bits o' bread;
an' down the briny pearls rowe
for mailie dead.
she was o' moornd tips,
wi' tauted ket, an' hairy hi
Poor Mailies Elegy(2/3)