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Wi' kindly bleat, when the did spy him,

She ran wi' speed:
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him,

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Than Mailie dead.

I wat she was a fheep o' sense,
An' could behave herfel wit mense :


I'll say't she never brak a fence,

Thro' thievish greed. Our Bardie, lanely, keeps the Spence

Sin' Mailic's dead.

Or, if he wanders up the howe,
Her living image in her gowe,
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 tips,
Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips;
For her forbcars were brought in ships,

Frae yont the Tweed:

A bonier fleesb ne'er cross'd the clips

Than Mailie's dead.

WAE worth the man wha firft did shape
That vile, wanchancie thing-a rape!
It maks guid fellows girn an' gape,

Wchokin dread;

An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape

For Mailie dead.

O, A' ye Bards on bonie Doon!

An' wha on Ayr your chaunter's tune !
Come, join the melancholius croon

O' Robin's reed !

His heart will never get aboon!

His Mailie's dead !


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DEAR S****, the fleeest, paukie thief,

That e'er attempted stealth or rief
Ye furely hae some warlock-breef

Owre human hearts;

For ne'er a bosom yet was prief

Against your arts.

For me, I swear by fun an' moon,

And ev'ry star that blinks aboon,
Ye've cost me twenty pair o'fhoon
Just gaun to see you ;


And ev'ry ither pair that's done,

Mair taen I'm wi' you.

THAT auld, capricious carlin, Nature,

To mak amends for scrimpet stature,
She's turn'd you off, a human creature

On her first plan,

And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature,

She's wrote, the Man.

Just now I've taen the fit o'rhyme, My barmie noddle's working prime, My fancy yerkit up sublime

Wi' hafty fummon: Hae ye a leisure-moment's time,

To hear what's comin?

SOME rhyme a neebor's name to lash; Some rhyme (vain thought!) for needfu' cash;



Some Some rhyme to court the countra clash,

An' raise a din;

For me, an aim I never fash;

I rhyme for fun.

The star that roles my luckless lot,

Has fated me the russet coat,

An' damn'd my fortune to the groat;

But, in requit,

Has bleft me with a random thot

O'contra wit.

This while my notions taen a sklent, To try my fate in guid black prent ; But still the mair I'm that way bent,

Something cries, 'Hoolie! * I red you, honest man, tak tent!


* Ye'll shaw your folly.


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