The poets aft hae sung in praise o' warriors in battle, Wha sned ilk ithers heids an' airms, Wi' muckle din and brattle.
I sing o' doughty warriors tae, Wha slayed men like cattle, Yet honour win on weel fecht fields - I sing a bluidless battle.
Thermopolae and Waterloo, Ye score nae mair than even, Wi' that which is my glorious theme The battle o' Kilkivan.
This son o' the Fergus cam' Tae judge oor countrie's plooin': But ere he gaed, he reeled a hank That maistly was his ruin.
He threw his gage o' battle doon An challenged tae a contest, The wale o' a' oor ploomen roond, An pick whate'er they thought best.
Sune cam' the day, an' sune the hoor, When maun their skill be testit, An' 'twad be seen in gin auld Kintyre, Should be the best or bestit.
An' no' alane in ploomen briests The patriot fire was ragin' Admirin' croods stood lookin' on, Tae see the battle wagin'.
The battle's ower, the victory's won, The son o' Fergus won it, Though shair am I that he himself Had built sma' hopes upon it.
An' still 'tis said, an' mony anes Haud it tae be true man, That he had but the better ploo An' we the better plooman.
J.M.