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But Bruckie play'd boo to Bawsie,
and aff gaed ths cowt like the win'
Poor Willie he fell i’ the cawsie
and birzed a' the banes in his skin;
The pistols fell out o' the holsters
and were a’ bedaubed wi’ dirt,
The folks ran about him in clusters,
some leugh, and said Lad are ye hurt!
fal de ral, la de.

The cowt wad let nae body near him
he was ay sae wanton and skeegh.
The padler stanes he lap o'er them,
an’ gart a’ the fowk stan' abeegh;
We a‘ sneering behin’ and before him,
for sic is the mettle o' brutes,
Poor Wattie and waes me for him,
was forc’d to gang hame in his boots.
Sing fal de ral, la de.


I sigh and lament me in vain,
these walls can but echo my moans,
Alas! it increases my pain,
when I think on the days that are gone.