There’s a bogle by the bour-tree at the lang loan heid,
I canna thole the thocht o’ him, he fills ma he’rt wi’ dreid;
He skirls like a hoolet, an’ he rattles a’ his banes,
An’ gi’es himsel’ an unco fash to fricht wee weans.

He’s never there by daylicht, but ance the gloamin’ fa’s,
He creeps alang the heid-rig, an’ through the tattie-shaws,
Syne splairges through the burn, an’ comes sprachlin’ ower the stanes,
Then coories doun ahint the dyke to fricht wee weans.

I canna say I’ve seen him, an’ it’s no’ that I am blin’,
But, whene’er I pass the bour-tree, I steek ma een an’ rin;
An’ though I get a tum’le whiles I’d raither thole sic pains,
Than look upon the likes o’ yon that frichts wee weans.

I daurna gang that gait ma lane by munelicht or by mirk,
Oor Tam’s no feart, but then he’s big, an’ strang as ony stirk;
He says the bogle’s juist the win’ that through the bour-tree maens.
The muckle gowk! It’s no the win’ that frichts wee weans.