O Bauld Braxy Tam, he lives far in the west,
Whaur the dreary Lang Whang heaves its brown heather crest
He's bauld as a lion, though mim as a lamb —
I rede ye na rouse him, our Bauld Braxy Tam.
The strang stalwart loon wons upon the hill-tap,
In peat-biggit shieling wi' thin theekit hap —
He ne'er wants a braxy, nor gude reestit ham,
And snell is the stamack o' Bauld Braxy Tam.

See how his straught form 'mid the storm-flicker'd lift,
Stalks ower the bleak muir, thro' the dark wreaths o' drift;
While the wowff o' the colley or bleat o' the ram,
Are beacons o' light to our Bauld Braxy Tam.
When April comes in aye sae sleety and chill,
And mony young lammie lies dead on the hill,
Though miss'd by the farmer, and left by its dam,
It's gude gusty gear to our Bauld Braxy Tam.

Tho' some o' us think he gets mair than eneugh,
That he finds the same lambs he had cast in the heugh,
The bauldest amang us maun keep our sough calm,
He's a lang luggit deevil, our Bauld Braxy Tam.
He ne'er parts wi' master, nor master wi' him,
Gin sulky the headsman, the herdsman looks grim,
Syne a's souther'd up wi' a flyte and a dram,
For Tam's like the master, the master like Tam.

Thro' a' our braid muirlands sae stunted and brown,
There's nane fear'd nor lo'ed like the hellicat loon;
Our fair muirland maidens feel mony love dwaum,
When milking the ewes o' our Bauld Braxy Tam.
For the wild roving rogue has the gled in his ee,
Twa three-neukit ee-brees aye louping wi' glee,
Wi' a black bushy beard, and a liquory gam,
O! wha wad be kittled by Bauld Braxy Tam?

At the lown ingle-cheek in the lang winter night,
Tam's welcomed wi' pleasure aye mingled wi' fright;
Queer sangs, and ghaist stories, a' thro' ither, cram —
The big roomy noddle o' Bauld Braxy Tam.
Then weans cour in neuks frae the fancy-raised ghaist,
Ill lad-faulds his arm round his ain lassie's waist;
The auld folks gae-bed in an ill-natured sham,
But the young gape till midnight round Bauld Braxy Tam.

They maun hae him married, the wild loon to cowe,
Wha 's fickle 's the clouds, tho' he 's het as the lowe;
He courts a' the lasses without e'er a qualm,
Yet nane e'er could tether our Bauld Braxy Tam.
But a puir auld sheep-farmer has come to the muir,
Wi' a dochter as fair as her faither is puir,
She's pure as the dew-drap, an' sweet as the balm,
And she's won the stout heart o' our Bauld Braxy Tam.