"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?