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!
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