3
But Bruckie play'd boo to Bawsie,
And aff scour'd the cowte like the win';
Poor Wattie he fell on the causeway,
And birs'd a' the banes in his skin.
His pistols fell out o' the bulsters,
And were a' bedaubed wi' dirt:
The folk they came round him in clusters,
Some leugh, and cri'd, lad, was you hurt?
The cowte wad let naebody steer him,
He was aye sae wanton and skeigh;
The packmen's stands he o'erturn'd them,
And gart a' the fair stand abeigh.
Wi' sneering behind and before him,
For sic is the metal of brutes,
Poor Wattie, and wae's me for him,
Was fain to gang hame in his boots.
Now it was late in the ev'ing,
And bughting time was drawing near,
The lassies had stenched their greening,
Wi' fouth o' braw apples and beer.
There was Lillie, and Tibbie, and Sibbie,
And Ceicie on the spindle could spin,
Stood glowring at signs and glass winnocks,
But de'il a lad bade them come in.
Gude guides! saw ye ever the like o't?
See yonder's a bonnie black swan;
It glowrs as it wad fain be at us;
What's yon tbat it hauds in its han'?
Awa, daft gowk, cries Wattie,
They're a' but a rickle o sticks;
See there is Bill, Jock, and Auld Hackie,
And yonder's Mess John and Auld Nick.
