For the win and water, Sir, did sae combine,
Carri’d him twa hunder mile in aught hours time,
They thought Donald a fool of the honest kind,
He confessed so freely all to their mind,
Suppos’d the Prince might lurking stay
Into the isle of St. Kilday,
A little island which does stand,
Far nor-west from isles or land,
The property of the laird MacLeod,
A barren soil, and poor abode,