I never needed tar nor keil To mark her upo' hip or heel, Her crookit horn did as weel To ken her by amo' them a'; She never threaten'd scab nor rot, But keepit aye her ain jog-trot, Baith to the fauld and to the cot, Was never sweir to lead nor caw; Baith to the fauld and to the cot, &c. III. Cauld nor hunger never dang her, Wind nor wet could never wrang her, Anes she lay an ouk and langer Furth aneath a wreath o' snaw: Whan ither ewies lap the dyke, And eat the kail, for a' the tyke, My Ewie never play'd the like, But tyc'd about the barn wa'; My Ewie never play'd the like, &c. IV. A better or a thriftier beast Nae honest man could weel hae wist, For, silly thing, she never mist To hae ilk year a lamb or twa': The first she had I gae to Jock, To be to him a kind o' stock, And now the laddie has a flock O' mair nor thirty head ava'; And now the laddie has a flock, &c. V. I lookit aye at even' for her, Lest mishanter should come o'er her, Or the fowmart might devour her, Gin the beastie bade awa; My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, Well deserved baith girse and corn, Sic a Ewe was never born, Hereabout nor far awa'; Sic a Ewe was never born, &c. VI. Yet last ouk, for a' my keeping, (Wha can speak it without _greeting_?) A villain cam' when I was sleeping, Sta' my Ewie, horn, and a': I sought her sair upo' the morn, And down aneath a buss o' thorn I got my Ewie's crookit horn, But my Ewie was awa'; I got my Ewie's crookit horn, &c. VII. O! gin I had the loon that did it, Sworn I have as well as said it, Though a' the warld should forbid it, I wad gie his neck a thra': I never met wi' sic a turn As this sin' ever I was born, My Ewie, wi' the crookit horn, Silly Ewie, stown awa'; My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c. VIII. O! had she died o' crook or cauld, As Ewies do when they grow auld, It wad na been, by mony fauld, Sae sair a heart to nane o's a': For a' the claith that we hae worn, Frae her and her's sae aften shorn, The loss o' her we could hae born, Had fair strae-death ta'en her awa'; The loss o' her we could hae born, &c. IX. But thus, poor thing, to lose her life, Aneath a bleedy villain's knife, I 'm really fleyt that our guidwife Will never win aboon 't ava: O! a' ye bards benorth Kinghorn, Call your muses up and mourn, Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn Stown frae 's, and fell'd and a'! Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c. O! WHY SHOULD OLD AGE SO MUCH WOUND US? TUNE--_"Dumbarton Drums."_ I.