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.

O! why should old age so much wound us?[2]
There is nothing in it all to confound us:
For how happy now am I,
With my old wife sitting by,