Classic Poem

I am pained and sick, I am tired and ill at ease; there is a binding on my limbs — I cannot walk a step; a curse on the king who took the tartan off us, may sudden death o'er-take him since he stretched the hose. Though the stocking is long in loose clumsy folds, better the short hose that measured not a span 'twixt heel and garter.
Thou didst allow us a coat of unsightly flapping width, and thou didst allow us shoes forsooth in plenty; thou didst increase our tax and decrease our possessions, and thou didst leave us of no account: we have no hope of recovery. Thou didst give us the trousers and didst tighten our hams: better the flowing tartan, the light convenient garb.
'Tis an ill night dress to be entangled in the cassock; I cannot stretch a leg, I cannot sleep; better joy of mind the ten single yards that I'd fold in the kilt at time of rising in the morning. That is the comely garb that would keep wind and rain from me: the curse of the two worlds on the one man who suppressed it.
There is no summer dress better than the tartan; it is light and cheerful in time of snow; it was used to clothe them by the lusty warriors: they do nurse a pain because they have it not. God! 'tis a great pity through spite to put out of use the dress which once gave shelter to the goodly Gaels.
Thou didst never see a mother's son on street or on parade more handsome than the Gael of finest presence: wearing pleated tartan, with his sword behind his shield, and his pistols so well primed that they wait not for the spark; a shield on the champion's shoulder, a slender gun beneath his arm: not a Saxon in the world but will blench at sight of him.
Well sits the blue bonnet cocked on savage locks, the short coat and kilt upon bared thighs, for going to face hardship in bloody, venomous, hard-hitting mood, to maul the red-coated ones — marrow would be laid bare: by the limb-strength of the heroes, straining their blades to the utmost, the cassocked ones would be destroyed and their heads missing from their necks.
When the Gaels do gather in place of conflict with their keen Spanish blades and their sheen of helmets, they will dearly pay in blood and gore, and no whit shall unavenged be of Culloden's field. There is not a man of rank who was plundered or made captive that will not get their foes to wreak their choice of vengeance on them.
When the men of Alba hear thy march undoubted, they will smartly go beneath thy figured banner; MacDonalds as of yore boldest in the chase, tailors of red cloth, though they'll not sew but tear; with their hard cleaving blades slicing ears and skulls; and there will be a tale of heads for every check in the tartan.
'Tis vexing that our clothing should be of altered shape; we shall hear of that being avenged, perhaps in London, by the pretty fellows who will fight like lions, who will put fear on Geordie so that he may not tarry. King Geordie will go home and the young prince will be captured; Charlie will be king, and the tartan's worth will be enhanced.
'Tis like being in prison to be without the tartan; we shall make earnest prayer and get succour; when they come across to us, five hundred thousand Frenchmen, Charlie will command them, the ball will be at their feet. Those are the cunning fighters who will wage a mighty battle, well armed enough, who will waulk (sprinkle with lead) the Sutherland tweed; and when the sow is singed and her litter boiled, the sword and the tartan will no more be forbidden.