Or, if he wanders up the howe, glen
Her living image in her yowe ewe-lamb
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, knoll
For bits o' bread,
An' down the briny pearls rowe roll
For Mailie dead.
She was nae get o' moorland tups, issue
Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips; matted fleece
For her forbears were brought in ships