'S toigh leam Dòmhnullach neo-chosdail O nach coltach e ri càch. 'N uair bhios iadsan ag iarraidh fortain Bidh esan 'n a phrop aig fear càis Ma bha do mhàthair 'n a mnaoi chòir Cha do ghleidh i 'n leabaidh phòsda glan, Cha 'n 'eil cuid agad do Chloinn Dòmhnuill, 'S Rothach no Ròsach am fear. 'N uair a bhuail thu aig an uinneig Cha b' ann a bhuinnigeadh cliù, Dh' iarraidh na druaip bha 's a' bhotul, Mallachd fir focail a' d' ghiùr.
We give a free translation of the above into English, far inferior, however, to the Gaelic original:--
I like to see a niggard man, One of the great Macdonald clan; When others are in quest of gain This man the needy will sustain. Your mother, if an honest dame, Has not retained her wedlock fame; No part is Mac from top to toe, You're either Rose or else Munro. When to the house you turned your face, Let it be told to your disgrace, 'Twas for the dregs you had forgot, The Poet's curse be in your throat.
The bridegroom, as we may well believe, smarted under the chastisement administered to him. He took an early opportunity of putting himself in the poet's way. Seeing Mr Macpherson riding past his place one day, he went to meet him with a bottle and glass, and importunately begged of him that he would have the goodness to say something now in his favour. Mr Macpherson complied with the request. Sitting on horseback, and taking the glass in his hand, he pronounced the ensuing eulogy on the bridegroom:--
Bha na bàird riamh breugach, bòsdail, Beular sinn, gòrach, gun seadh, Lasgair gasd e Chloinn Dòmhnuill, Mac Ailein Mhòir as a Mhagh. Chuir e botul neo-ghortach a' m' dhorn, A chur iotadh mo sgòrnain air chùl, 'S bàrd gun tùr a bh' air a' chòrdadh Nach do sheinn gu mòr a chliù. Ach tha 'n seòrs' ud uile cho caillteach, Cho mi-thaingeil, 's cho beag ciall, 'S ma thig a' chuach idir o 'n ceann, Nach fiach e taing na fhuair iad riamh.
The bards, as we have ever seen, Liars and flatterers have been; Boasting, with little cause to glory, So empty is their upper storey. Of Clan Macdonald this is one, Of Allan Mor of Moy the son; He brought to me a sonsy vessel To satiate my thirsty whistle. The poet proved himself unwise When him he did not eulogise. The bards--I own it with regret-- Are a pernicious sorry set, Whate'er they get is soon forgot, Unless you always wet their throat.