So you're coming, ye reivers and rogues,
When the men will be fighting afar—
Oh! all the Mac Quithens[1] are bold
When it's only with women they'll war

Weasels that creep in the dark!
Foxes that prowl in the night!
Rats that are hated and vile!—
O hasten you out of my sight!

Oh! my cow you would take from my byre?—
This day will the beggars be brave!
You'd be lifting the thatch from the roof
If you hadna' a roof to your cave

Your chief he's the lord o' the lies!
A wind-bag his wife wi' the brag!
Your clan is the pride o' the thieves—
Whose meal will you have in your bag?

Now, Laspuig Maclan[2] may blush—
Oh! he'll be the sorrowful man—
His fame for the thieving is gone
To the reivers and rogues of your clan

You'll spare me "so old and so frail,
Fitter to die than to live?"
But maybe I'll slay with the tongue
And the heart that will never forgive

The curse of the frail will be strong,
The curse of the widow be sure;
O the curse of the wrong'd will avenge,
Black, black is the curse of the poor!

Ha! laugh at your ease while you can—
Laugh! it's the devil's turn next—
For after I'm done with you all,
O who will be doleful and vext?

Bare-kneed on the ground will I go—
My hair on my shoulders let fall,
Now hear me and never forget
My curses I'll cast on you all

_Little increase to your clan!
The down-mouth to you and to yours!
The blight on your little black cave!
The luck o' a Friday on moors!

Fire upon land be your lot!
Drowning in storm on the deep!
Leave not a son to succeed!
Leave not a daughter to weep!

Here's the bad meeting to you!
Death without priest be your fate!
Go to your grandfather's[3] house—
The Son of the Cursing[4] will wait!_

[Footnote 1: This clan, which had an evil reputation, is extinct]

[Footnote 2: Laspuig MacIan—A famous thief]

[Footnote 3: "Grandfather's house"—The grave]

[Footnote 4: "Son of the Cursing"—The devil]