NIJINSKI
(by Duncan A. McNab)

Now people give ear to my story,
I have come from afar for to tell,
The story of Nijinski,
She was a sheep that I once knew well,
She was born high up in the Pentlands,
Amongst the heather and peat,
And it didn't take long for Nijinski,
To discover the spring in her feet.

Now I know that lambs will gamble,
And lambs will frolic and play,
But Nijinski she just kept on running,
Throughout both the night and the day,
And fences and dykes proved no problem,
She took them all in her stride,
And she leapt with a grace and a beauty,
No amount of wool could hide.

When it came to clippings and dippings,
She was nowhere to be seen,
She vanished from all those who sought her,
Just like a morning dream,
And on those terrible days when the butcher,
Turned fluffy white sheep into meat,
Nijinski would take a vacation,
Maybe graze around Arthur's Seat.

Oh what a beautiful creature,
Nijinski it was her name,
She run faster than the racehorse,
Had a spirit you could not tame,
Some said she was rather simple,
Some said she was rather dim,
But Farmer Smith couldn't build the fence,
That would keep Nijinski in.

But Farmer Smith made a promise,
A promise, an oath and a vow,
That one day he'd catch Nijinski,
But to be honest he didn't know how,
She could out run his trusty old sheep dog,
Out jump the nimblest of deer,
She was truly a great woolly jumper,
Quite simply a sheep without peer.

Now on one fine summer's morning,
Farmer Smith and his trusty dog "Fly",
Were climbing around Craigengar,
When Nijinski went galloping by,
"Come by ! Come by ! " cried the farmer,
"Come by ye old bugger ! " cried he,
But Nijinski flew o'er the skyline,
Before the old dog Fly could flee
A sonic boom was heard in West Linton,
As Nijinski went galloping through,
And when the farmer caught up with his sheep dog,
The air in the Pentlands turned blue.

No one knows what became of Nijinski,
Or where she ended her days,
But she was destined for fire and brimstone,
If you listened to Farmer Smith's prayers,
She was a legend upon her own hilltop,
And had several lambs of her own,
Which proved that she must have stopped sometimes,
For the seeds of new life to be sown.

So people take heed of this warning,
If onto the Pentlands you stray,
When the mist rolls down from the hilltops,
Just before the end of the day,
A ghostly image can still be seen running,
Amongst all the gimmers and hogs,
Pursued by a ghostly old farmer,
And a ghostly knackered sheep dog.

Tune: Earsdon Sword Dance

Winning song in the
1998 Sandy Watt Memorial Quaich Song Competition
Glenfarg Village Folk Club

This song was written about a real sheep. Farmer Smith was a real sheep farmer in the Pentland Hills in southern central Scotland. When Nijimski was alive his sheep dog was called Fly. I lived on the neighbouring farm to Farmer (Iain) Smith and Nijinski was a regular visitor as she cantered through the fields around the farm.
D.A.M.