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 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;