The Norse invaders are supposed to rehearse the following wild and fierce lyric as they drop anchor in the harbour of Lochindaul:— Here we come, but we thus will not leave you— The axe, axe; To-morrow will startle and grieve you With the axe, the axe. A red blazing torch in each dwelling— The axe, the axe; Your goods plundered, your captured wives yelling— The axe, the axe. Fleeing, and cursing, and wailing— The knife, knife; The girth of your knees shall be failing For the knife, knife, They who meet us shall leave that place never— The knife, knife; Morn or eve shall they see them for ever— The knife, knife; None shall live to tell of the Reaver With the axe, axe; But the raven above shall be croaking— The axe, axe; And then feast on their limbs till he’s choking— The axe, axe. You now live who in blood then shall welter— The knife, knife; Cave or hole cannot hide you or shelter From the knife, knife. Through your throats the hoarse chorus ascending— The knife, knife; In that cry screams and groans shall keep blending— The knife, knife. All these ills shall your great men entangle— The axe, axe— Ere their heads on our green withs shall dangle— The axe, axe; The nerves of their necks we will rend them— With the axe, axe; To the anvil to roast then we’ll send them— The axe, axe— The head of Mackay shall we shinty— The axe, axe— Down the Rhinns, where his kin shall grow scanty, With the axe, axe.