[Verse 1] The spinning wheel turns in the light of the door, We’re crafting the wealth that we haven’t before. The Howell is drafting the price of the fleece, Ensuring the profit will bring us some peace. The Howey is tending the flock on the rise, With knowledge of seasons and weather and skies. The wool is as white as the clouds on the crest, We’re putting the valley to ultimate test. The shears are a rhythm, a snap and a slide, With nothing but pride in the work we provide. [Chorus] From the back of the sheep to the fold of the page, We’re turning the leaf of a mercantile age. The Howell to contract, the Howey to breed, We’re filling the market for every great need. The wool is the gold of the high mountain glen, The strength of the women, the work of the men. The iron and the acre, the ink and the rein, We’re weaving the future on top of the plain. [Verse 2] The market is calling from over the sea, The Howell is writing the binding decree. We list every bale that we send to the port, With logic that stands in the highest of court. The Howey is selecting the best of the line, Ensuring the quality truly is fine. We know that the buyer will pay for the best, So we put our effort to constant unrest. The Howell is counting the coin in the bin, While the Howey prepares for the work to begin. [Chorus] From the back of the sheep to the fold of the page, We’re turning the leaf of a mercantile age. The Howell to contract, the Howey to breed, We’re filling the market for every great need. The wool is the gold of the high mountain glen, The strength of the women, the work of the men. The iron and the acre, the ink and the rein, We’re weaving the future on top of the plain. [Bridge] The ledger is growing with every new trade, The Howell is proud of the money we’ve made. But the Howey knows well that it comes from the hand, That works through the winter to care for the land. We are the partners of fiber and law, A working relationship without any flaw. We’re building a legacy, stitch by the stitch, Making the poor of the valley feel rich. The wool is our mantle, the writ is our shield, In every high pasture and every green field. [Verse 3] The evening is cooling, the spinning is done, We watch as the shadows are chasing the sun. The Howell is satisfied, ink has run dry, While the Howey is happy beneath the wide sky. The ninth song is woven in patterns of grace, The record of family, the record of place. We’ve built up a kingdom of soft, heavy wool, With coffers of wisdom that always are full. The future is waiting, the ledger is bright, We rest in the comfort of duty tonight. [Chorus] From the back of the sheep to the fold of the page, We’re turning the leaf of a mercantile age. The Howell to contract, the Howey to breed, We’re filling the market for every great need. The wool is the gold of the high mountain glen, The strength of the women, the work of the men. The iron and the acre, the ink and the rein, We’re weaving the future on top of the plain. [Outro] The spindle stops turning, the workshop is still, A calm, quiet energy rests on the hill. The Howell is scribe, and the Howey is guide, With the weight of the harvest gathered inside. The ninth part is finished, the wool has been sold, A story of value that never grows old.
