It was the hour o’ gloaming gray,
When herds come in frae fauld and pen;
A herd he saw a huntsman lie,
Says he, ‘Can this be Laird Troughen’?’—
XXXIII
‘There’s some will ca’ me Parcy Reed,
And some will ca’ me Laird Troughen’;
It’s little matter what they ca’ me,
My faes hae made me ill to ken.
XXXIV
‘There’s some will ca’ me Parcy Reed,
And speak my praise in tower and town;
It’s little matter what they do now,
My life-blood rudds the heather brown.
XXXV
‘There’s some will ca’ me Parcy Reed,
And a’ my virtues say and sing;
I would much rather have just now
A draught o’ water frae the spring.’
XXXVI
The herd flung aff his clouted shoon
And to the nearest fountain ran;
He made his bonnet serve a cup,
And wan the blessing o’ the dying man.