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 kent her could ha' sworn,
Sic a ewie ne'er was born
Here about nor far awa'.

Yet last week, for a' my keeping,
-- I canna speak o't without greeting --
A villain came, when I was sleeping.
Staw 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'.

O had she died o' crook or cauld,
As ewies die whan they grow auld,
It wadna been by mony fauld
Sae sair a heart to ane o's a':
For a' the claith that we ha' worn,
Frae her and her's sae aften shorn,
The loss o' her we could ha'e born,
Had fair strae death ta'en her awa'.

But thus, poor thing! to lose her life
Aneath a greedy villain's knife!
I'm really fleyt that our guidwife
Will never win aboon't ava'.
O! a' ye bards benorth Kingorn,
Call up your muses, let them mourn
Our ewie wi' the crookit horn,
Stown frae us, and fell'd and a'.