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!