III.
“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 Dhuinéwassails!”
IV.
“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.”
V.
“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!”
VI.
“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.