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, wot
An' could behave hersel wi' mense; manners
I'll say't, she never brak a fence
Thro' thievish greed.
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence parlor
Sin' Mailie's dead. Since