The last sad cape-stane of his woes—cope-stone
Poor Mailie's dead!
It's no the loss o' warl's gear worldly lucre
That could sae bitter draw the tear,
Or mak our bardie, dowie, wear downcast
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;