The fairies prance within my kilt
for she’s a lass bonnie built,
but when she kicked to dance a lay
she broke the wind—my fairies fled away.
But why fault such a lovely lass
her eagerness and a bit of gas?
Taking hold, then, I kiss her mute
and my fairies flee away at her toot.
To the chapel we go anon
with her bridal gown flowing on,
and at the altar love is vowed,
but my fairies flee when she farts aloud.
Across the threshold of my home
which is a cottage made of loam,
I carry the love of my life,
but the fairies sniff, groan, and flee my wife.
Upon my bed I lay her down
and from her breasts I doff her gown;
we make love sweet, gentle, and kind,
yet the pressure escapes out her behind.
A long life we live together,
in fair, fairer, fairest weather,
but the fairies remain outdoors
by day or night, for she farts as she snores.
Growing old, my lass never stops,
resounding through the mountaintops
of the highlands, lowlands, and all,
scaring the fairies with her war horn’s call.
But I never will mind her smell,
though oft like the sulphurs of Hell,
so why fret if my bonnie lass
wards fairies with her will o’ the wisp gas?
For in winter when cold winds blow
and the hearth is warm with fire’s glow
she lights it brighter with her fart
and warms me up body and soul, and heart.