Before we leave this branch of Muir descendants who settled in Blantyre so long ago, I wanted to share a humorous anecdote I read in my copy of The Annals of Blantyre by Rev. Stewart Wright and published in 1885:
"About a hundred years ago, or thereabouts, the laird of Shott was returning from Hamilton at the close of a market day. Whether it was from the fatigues of the day, or owing to the cold of the night, the laird fell asleep, and unfortunately fell out of his one-horse shay; but falling "saftly," as the folks said, he lay still where he was, to have his forty winks. And the faithful beast, accustomed to such pranks of his master, stood quietly by till the laird should awaken.
Two strangers came along the road, and they anxiously bent over the prostrate man, to find if there was life in him; and finding that he breathed, they tried to rouse him, telling him to get up, and asking him, 'Who are you?' At last they got a reply, 'I'm Shott, I'm Shott.' 'Who shot you?' 'I'm Shott at Blantyre.' The men were good Samaritans, and so they gently lifted the wounded man into his own gig, and drove him back to Hamilton, where they roused up the police at the station-house, told of the tragedy, and delivered over their charge. But to the consternation of the strangers, no sooner did the lantern flash its light upon the 'wounded' man's face, then the police burst into loud laughter, telling the benevolent Samaritans, 'It's only old Shott, the laird at Blantyre.' We are of opinion that those kindly individuals would make a pretty minute examination the next time they saw a man prostate by the wayside."