(Robert Burns)



    
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21-23.06.1999
   


, 16 4- 6- (1- ), 10- 12- (2- ), 16- 18- (3- ), 22- 24- (4- ), 28- 30- (5- ), 34- 36- (6- ), 40- 42- (7- ), 46- 48- (8- ) , .




Poor Mailies Elegy


LAMENT in rhyme, lament in prose,
Wi saut tears tricklin down your nose;
Our bardies fate is at a close,
    Past a remead;
The last sad cape-stane of his woes-
    Poor Mailies dead!

Its no the loss o warls gear
That could sae bitter draw the tear,
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear
    The mourning weed:
Hes 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 neer cam nigh him
    Than Millie dead.

I wat she was a sheep o sense,
An could behave hersel wi mense;
Ill sayt, she never brak a fence
    Thro thievish greed.
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence
    Sin Mailies dead.

Or, if he wanders up the howe,
Her living image in her yowe
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe,
    For bite 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 neer crossd the clips
    Than Millies, 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 Robins 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 Robins reed;
His heart will never get aboon
    His Mailie dead!




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