Twa Corbies Print (Limited Edition)

TwaCorbies_print_mockup_web.jpg
TwaCorbies_print_mockup_web.jpg

Twa Corbies Print (Limited Edition)

45.00

"The Twa Corbies" is an old Scottish poem about two crows. A classic poem you likely already know and love, here is the story illustrated in ink by Sam Flegal.

Each Twa Corbies print measures 11" x 17", is printed on speckletone kraft paper from French paper, and is signed and numbered by the artist.

This signed and numbered edition is limited to 10 copies.

Only 4 prints remain.

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Twa Corbies (with English Translation)

"The Twa Corbies" is an old Scottish song with a dark and cynical tone. It's original composer has been lost to time and it dates back to sometime in the 17th century. As such an old tale many versions of the poem exist.

The Two Crows (English)

As I was walking all alone,
I heard two crows (or ravens) making a moan;
One said to the other,
"Where shall we go and dine today?"

"In behind that old turf wall,
I sense there lies a newly slain knight;
And nobody knows that he lies there,
But his hawk, his hound and his lady fair."

"His hound is to the hunting gone,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl home, 
His lady's has taken another mate,
So we may make our dinner sweet."

"You will sit on his white neck-bone,
And I'll peck out his pretty blue eyes;
With one lock of his golden hair
We'll thatch our nest when it grows bare."

"Many a one for him is moaning,
But nobody will know where he is gone;
Over his white bones, when they are bare,
The wind will blow for evermore."

The Two Crows (Old Scottish)

As I was walking all alone,
I heard two crows (or ravens) making a moan;
One said to the other,
"Where shall we go and dine today?"

"In behind that old turf wall,
I sense there lies a newly slain knight;
And nobody knows that he lies there,
But his hawk, his hound and his lady fair."

"His hound is to the hunting gone,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl home, 
His lady's has taken another mate,
So we may make our dinner sweet."

"You will sit on his white neck-bone,
And I'll peck out his pretty blue eyes;
With one lock of his golden hair
We'll thatch our nest when it grows bare."

"Many a one for him is moaning,
But nobody will know where he is gone;
Over his white bones, when they are bare,
The wind will blow for evermore."