The Ewe Bughts

"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?