Hersell pe auchty years and twa,
⁠Te twenty-tird o' May, man;
She twell amang the Heelan hills,
⁠Ayont the reefer Spey, man.
Tat year tey foucht the Sherra-muir,
⁠She first peheld te licht, man;
Tey shot my father in tat stoure—
⁠A plaguit, vexin spite, man.

I've feucht in Scotland here at hame,
⁠In France and Shermanie, man;
And cot tree tespurt pluddy cons,
⁠Beyond te 'Lantic sea, man:
But wae licht on te nasty cun,
⁠Tat ever she pe porn, man;
Phile koot klymore te tristle caird,
⁠Her leaves pe never torn, man.

Ae tay I shot, and shot, and shot,
⁠Phane'er it cam' my turn, man;
Put a' te force tat I could gi'e,
⁠Te powter wadna purn, man.
A filty loun cam' wi' his cun,
⁠Resolvt to too me harm, man;
And wi' te tirk upon her nose
⁠Ke me a pluddy arm, man.

​I flang my cun wi' a' my micht,
⁠And fellt his neepour teit, man;
Tan drew my swort, and at a straik
⁠Hewt aff te haf o's heit, man.
Be vain to tell o' a' my tricks:
⁠My oons pe nae tiscrace, man,
Ter no pe yin pehint my back,
⁠Ter a' pefor my face, man.