He’s hunted a’ the water of Reed,
Till wearydness has on him taen,
I the Baitinghope he’s faen asleep.
5
. . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
And the fause, fause Ha’s o Girsenfield,
They’ll never be trowed nor trusted again.
6
They’ve taen frae him his powther-bag,