"Will you go to the ewe-bughts, Marian
And wear in the sheep wi' me?
The mavis sings sweetly, my Marian
But not sae sweetly as thee"
These aft were the words of my Sandy
As we met in the howe of the glen
But nae mair shall I meet wi' my Sandy
For Sandy to Flanders is gane
How can the trumpet's loud clarion
Thus take a' the shepherds afar?
Oh could na' the ewe-bughts and Marian
Please mair than the horrors of war?
But, oh 'tis the fault o' them a', sirs
In search of gowd and of fame
The lads daily wander awa', sirs
And leave their poor lasses at hame
Not a plow in the land has been ganging
The owsen hae stood in the sta'
Nae flails in our barns hae been banging
For mair than this towmond or twa
Ilka Laird in the Highlands is rueing
That he drove his poor tenants away
For naething is seen here but ruin
As the haughs are a' lying in lay
There's gowd in the garters of Sandy
And silk in his blue-bonnet lug
And I'm not a kaerd nor a randy
Nor a lass without blanket or rug
Then why should he fight sae for riches
Or seek for a sodger's degree
Or fling by his kilt for the breeches
And leave the dear ewe-bughts and me?
And leave the dear ewe-bughts and me?
