The Book of Scottish Song/The Ewie
The Ewie.
[Written by the Rev. John Skinner to an old Highland reel tune. "The Ewie wi' the crooked horn" is supposed to be a metaphor for the whiskey still.]
O, were I able to rehearse,
My ewie's praise in proper verse,
I'd sound it out as loud and fierce
As ever piper's drone could blaw.
My ewie wi' the crookit horn!
A' that kenn'd her would ha'e sworn,
Sic a ewie ne'er was born,
Hereabouts nor far awa'.
She neither needed tar nor keel,
To mark her upon hip or heel;
Her crookit hornie did as weel,
To ken her by amang them a'.
She never threatened scab nor rot,
But keepit aye her ain jog-trot;
Baith to the fauld and to the cot,
Was never sweir to lead nor ca'.
A better nor a thriftier beast,
Nae honest man need e'er ha'e wish'd;
For, silly thing, she never miss'd
To ha'e ilk year a lamb or twa.
The first she had I ga'e to Jock,
To be to him a kind o' stock;
And now the laddie has a flock
Of mair than thretty head and twa.
The neist I ga'e to Jean; and now
The bairn's sae braw, has faulds sae fu',
That lads sae thick come her to woo,
They're fain to sleep on hay or straw.
Cauld nor hunger never dang her,
Wind or rain could never wrang her;
Ance she lay an ouk and langer
Forth aneath a wreath o' snaw.
When other ewies lap the dyke,
And ate the kale for a' the tyke,
My ewie never play'd the like,
But teesed about the barn wa'.
I lookit aye at even for her,
Lest mishanter should come ower her,
Or the fuimart micht devour her,
Gin the beastie bade awa'.
Yet, last ouk, for a' my keeping,
(Wha can tell o't without greeting?)
A villain cam', when I was sleeping,
Staw my ewie, horn and a'.
I socht her sair upon the morn,
And down aneath a bush o' thorn,
There I fand her crookit horn,
But my ewie was awa'.
But gin I had the loon that did it,
I ha'e sworn as weel as said it,
Although the laird himsell forbid it,
I sall gi'e his neck a thraw.
I never met wi' sic a turn:
At e'en I had baith ewe and horn,
Safe steeket up; but, 'gain the morn,
Baith ewe and horn were stown awa'.
A' the claes that we ha'e worn,
Frae her and hers sae aft was shorn;
The loss o' her we could ha'e borne,
Had fair-strae death ta'en her awa'.
O, had she died o' croup or cauld,
As ewies die when they grow auld,
It hadna been, by mony fauld,
Sae sair a heart to ane o' us a'.
But thus, puir thing, to lose her life,
Beneath a bluidy villain's knife;
In troth, I fear that our gudewife
Will never get abune 't ava.
O, all ye bards benorth Kinghorn,
Call up your muses, let them mourn
Our ewie wi' the crookit horn,
Frae us stown, and fell'd and a'!