There was Watrie, the muirland laddie,
Was mounted upon a grey cowte,
With sword by his side, like a caddie,
To drive in the sheep and the nowte.
His doublet sae weel it did fit him,
It scarcely came down to mid-thigh,
With hair pouthered, hat, and a feather,
And housing at courpon and tee.
But Bruckie played boo to Bawsie,
And aff scoured the cowte like the win’;
Poor Wattie he fell on the causey,
And brised a’ the banes in his skin.
His pistols fell out of the hulsters,
And were a’ bedaubed with dirt:
The folk they came round him in clusters,
Some leugh, and cried, Lad, was ye hurt?
The cowte wad let naebody steer him,
He was aye sae wanton and skeigh;
The packmens stands he o’erturned them,
And gart a’ the fair stand abeigh.
With sneering behind and before him;
For sic is the mettle 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’ning,
And bughting time was drawing near;
