Classic Poem

received as a present from a certain lady

Hem o, ho io,
Ho ro, the white-faced ewe,
Hem o, ho io.

O the ewe I got from Susie,
and no coin went to her purchase,
 Hem o, ho io, &c.

Ever hale be that true lady
by whom the white-faced ewe was gifted.

In every place I drink a dram,
I shall remember to toast you.

The ewe that came from Corrie Uanain
had part of her fleece like moor cotton.

Part of her was coloured scarlet,
another part was like broom blossom.

The soft-fleeced ewe of the white feet
really resembled silk floss.

Many a fly, designed for angling,
came in the past from her fair tresses.

There was good stuff for costly plaids
in every portion of her mantle.

They will put it on wool cards;
'tis beautiful when it is drawn out.

It was more fluffy than the best flax
that Lowlanders have a-growing.

She had two lambs a year, and every
single one of them was healthy.

When it came within a month of May day,
her yield of milk was to my profit.

With crowdie and cream she would supply me,
however cold might be the spring-time.

She would suffice me all the summer,
to keep me in kitchen and provisions.

At milking time she was unequalled
throughout Argyll's jurisdiction.

She took the lead among the flock
going to and from the village.

'Tis I had the pang of bereavement
the day they felled her in the bracken.

Oft do I gaze upon the spot
where, still warm, she lay a-bleeding.

'Twas in the heather by Allt Ghartain
she slept the sleep from which she woke not.

I am angry with the fox
that was so bold as to attack her.

The bird-flocks may enjoy a surfeit,
eating her flesh and her suet.

There's not a bird that perched on carcase
but was round you of a sudden.

The red fellow, that had slain her,
took a portion of her to his den.

When I reached the scene of slaughter,
nought of you remained but the shadow.

The bones had been picked bare,
and the wool reduced to tatters.

Since I have now lost my ewe,
my raiment is like to be threadbare.

Wherewith shall a coat for me be made,
when the white-faced ewe is not living?

Every good-wife in the country
is well disposed to me, I fancy.

I'll go asking the wool-thigging,
from the kind dames of the district.

I shall call at Inver Ghineachd,
and I shall announce my purpose.

I'll get a handful of sheep's wool,
since I am destitute of clothing.

At Strone House I'll get a fleece
from the kind wife who lived in Arthar.

In Glen Ketland of the herbage,
I shall get the large white fleeces.

I'll get the fill of the scallop-shell
from the daughter of tippling, grey Donald.

I'll put that over my thrapple,
that I may carry the load better.

I'll reach the dame of Kinlochetive;
I am in straits, and she would not wish it.

I'll get from her a handful for thigging,
and, because I am a friend, another.

The wife at Guala Chuilinn will remark,
“Much do I deplore your grievance.”

She will fetch the whisky down to try
if it will shake the sadness off me.

Each wife at Druim-a-Chothais will say,
“You'll get a gift, you well deserve it.”

When I go to Inver Charnain,
not one wife there will leave me wanting.

When I go to the adjacent township,
I'll get a tuft in every homestead.

There is no woman in Dalness,
but I'll wait on her benevolence.

I'll come home with all I get,
the mass of it large as a gelding.

More than a year will that suffice me
to provide spinning for the baron's daughter.

When it goes into the shuttles,
the weaver woman will oblige me.

Many a dame can make a sumptuous cloth,
but, without a quartet, cannot waulk it.

I should want the damsels of Glen Etive
all to come into the township.

When I set them well a-going,
then will the tweed be shrunken.

When they apply themselves to fulling,
their voices will not be husky.

When they are seated at a hurdle,
their shout could be heard beyond the mountains.

When they sing the songs, they drive
the birds to carol in the branches.

When they introduce a chorus,
they are more melodious than the swan's call.

Much sweeter is the maidens' tone
than pipe music at the head of column.

Each of them takes her task in hand,
while her mouth will sing the music.

One sees to water, one to peats,
another keeps the fire well trimmed;

one tramps it in a tub,
one steeps it and one rinses it;

a couple pound it with vigour,
and a couple wring it with strong grasp.

But before they hand it over,
I'm sure it will become firm-textured.

It will be dried on the front
of a kail-yard that has a coping.

If the tailor does not come to me,
'tis shameful of him: we gave him a wife.

Then, indeed, shall I be clothed
by the wool that I collected.

'Tis I who am melancholy,
lamenting for the white-faced ewe.

'Tis little wonder I should sorrow
or be dejected and disgruntled.

When I sit upon a hillock,
'tis on grief my mind is focused,

recalling the image of the ewe
that had no equal in the country.

She was brindled, she was tawny,
she was white-footed and white-faced;

she was white-hoofed, she was stout-legged,
and her tail tip had a white splash.

When I go to look at the sheep,
I shall miss the white-faced ewe.

I am the poorer for her passing,
I was the better of her while she lived.

She never, while she lived, permitted
scarcity within my dwelling.

Whenever I went to the shieling,
she would tide me over meal-times.

Well would she nourish the children:
they were full-fed when I wished it.

'Tis I could do with little toiling,
all the time my ewe was living.

Since her life has terminated
I must spend a deal in buying.

May that sheep-cote fare well
from which came the white-faced ewe.

And she from whom I first received her
has thoroughly earned my blessing.

Farewell to that which disappears:
not this, but what endures, avails us.

'Tis better to be blithe with what remains
than to be doleful over losses.