Massacre of the Macpherson

Fhairshon swore a feud
Against the clan M’Tavish—
March’d 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 ta peasties.
Here ’s Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh
Coming wi’ his fassals,
Gillies seventy-three,
And sixty Dhuinéwassels!”

“Coot tay to you, sir!
Are you not ta Fhairshon?
Was you coming here
To visit any person?
You are a plackguard, sir!
It is now six hundred
Coot long years, and more,
Since my glen was plunder’d.”

“Fat is tat you say?
Dar you cock your peaver?
I will teach you, sir,
Fat is coot pehavior!
You shall not exist
For another day more;
I will shot 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 spoil’d ta flood
By trinking up ta water:

Which he would have done,
I at least believe 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 tuty!