Fhairshon swore a feud...

Fhairshon swore a feud

Against the clan M'Tavish;

Marched into their land

To murder and to rafish;

For he did resolve

To extirpate the vipers,

With four-and-twenty men

And five-and-thirty pipers.

But when he had gone

Half-way down Strath Canaan,

Of his fighting tail

Just three were remainin’.

They were all he had,

To back him in ta battle;

All the rest had gone

Off, to drive ta cattle.

“Fery coot!” cried Fhairshon,

“So my clan disgraced is;

Lads, we'll need to fight,

Pefore we touch the peasties.

Here's Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh

Coming wi’ his fassals,

Gillies seventy-three,

And sixty Dhuinewassails!”

“Coot tay to you, sir;

Are you not ta Fhairshon?

Was you coming here

To fisit any person?

You are a plackguard, sir!

It is now six hundred

Coot long years, and more,

Since my glen was plundered.”

“Fat is tat you say?

Dare you cock your peaver?

I will teach you, sir,

Fat is coot pehaviour!

You shall not exist

For another day more;

I will shoot you, sir,

Or stap you with my claymore!”

“I am fery glad,

To learn what you mention,

Since I can prevent

Any such intention.”

So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh

Gave some warlike howls,

Trew his skhian-dhu,

An’ stuck it in his powels.

In this fery way

Tied ta faliant Fhairshon,

Who was always thought

A superior person.

Fhairshon had a son,

Who married Noah's daughter,

And nearly spoiled ta Flood,

By trinking up ta water:

Which he would have done,

I at least pelieve it,

Had ta mixture peen

Only half Glenlivet.

This is all my tale:

Sirs, I hope‘ tis new t'ye!

Here's your fery good healths,

And tamn ta whusky duty!