Blind Harry listened to the lads shuffling in and taking their seats around him; bedizened in his full battle tartan, he brandished a claymore in one hand, a battle-axe in the other, like a latter-day warrior on a summerful day; it is true that The Lochlann fought with the scum who had treated this Proud and Ancient Land as a Brothel and Charnel Hoose, tae wit: Sir Parlane MacFarlane and Devilish Dominic Doubleday, fer Hoors efter the once-feared Red Etin of Ireland had been slain and his dark blood turned the River Glum bricht red! the Freed-men and boys had focht bravely an sarely an aw survived, an yet the twa scunners whirled an danced, each wi a glitterin claymore in yin haund an a battle-axe in t'ither, kept the airmy at bay, until The Lochlann appeared in the midst o his men an boys, aw fechtin fer their Freedom an wi nary a thocht o ony emolument; his tunic wis drenched wi the bluid o the Red Etin, but he girded his loins an stepped inside the swingin weapons o Doubleday an plunged his claymore richt through his opponent's boady, let go the hilt an the deid vermin hell flat on his face, his weight pushin the sword full six fit oot o his back! then tae MacFarlane – the twa parried an lunged, an mind The Lochlann hud only his battle-axe, while MacFarlane still hud baith o his weapons; MacFarlane pressed, The Lochlann stepped back and tripped ower the prone boady o Doubleday, MacFarlane seized his chance, ran forward, raised his twa airms high to strike when, KAPOW! a stane hit him full in yin o his een, he screamed like a banshee and drappit baith his claymore an axe, hauns up tae the bloody socket whaur his richt ee should be, then KABOOM! anither stane smashed intae his left ee, he drappit tae his knees an quick as a flash, The Lochlann swung his ain axe in a high arc fi his prone position an brocht it doon upon MacFarlane's heid, splittin it in twa, fi crown tae jaw an richt doon his neck, breist bane an spine until the evil torment was split in twain, an each side fell awa fi The Lochlann's axe whaur it buried itsel deep intae the rock in which it's still stuck fast, cried The Axe Rock, an tis said that if ony Man can pull it oot the rock he shall be King o Scotland! and out of the hushed silence that followed, a wee voice asked: "could it be a Boy, Maister Harry?"