I wat she was a sheep o' sense, An' could behave hersel' wi' mense: I'll say't, she never brak a fence, Thro' thievish greed. Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence Sin' Mailie's dead.
Or, if he wanders up the howe, Her living image in her yowe Comes bleating till 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' tauted ket, an' hairy hips; For her forbears were brought in ships, Frae 'yont the Tweed. A bonier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips Than Mailie's dead.
Wae worth the man wha first did shape That vile, wanchancie thing--a raip! It maks guid fellows girn an' gape, Wi' chokin dread; An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape For Mailie dead.
O, a' ye bards on bonie Doon! An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune! Come, join the melancholious croon O' Robin's reed! His heart will never get aboon-- His Mailie's dead!
It was upon a Lammas night, When corn rigs are bonie, Beneath the moon's unclouded light, I held awa to Annie; The time flew by, wi' tentless heed, Till, 'tween the late and early, Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed To see me thro' the barley.
Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, An' corn rigs are bonie: I'll ne'er forget that happy night, Amang the rigs wi' Annie.
The sky was blue, the wind was still, The moon was shining clearly; I set her down, wi' right good will, Amang the rigs o' barley: I ken't her heart was a' my ain; I lov'd her most sincerely;
I kiss'd her owre and owre again, Amang the rigs o' barley. Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, &c.
I lock'd her in my fond embrace; Her heart was beating rarely: My blessings on that happy place, Amang the rigs o' barley! But by the moon and stars so bright, That shone that hour so clearly! She aye shall bless that happy night Amang the rigs o' barley. Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, &c.
I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear; I hae been merry drinking; I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear; I hae been happy thinking: But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, Tho' three times doubl'd fairly, That happy night was worth them a', Amang the rigs o' barley. Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, &c.
Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns Bring Autumn's pleasant weather; The moorcock springs on whirring wings Amang the blooming heather: Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, Delights the weary farmer; And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night, To muse upon my charmer.