Hark, good folk, a tale I bring, from misty Scottish heights, Of warriors born in ancient times, who cannot end their fights. Among the clans of highland soil, one man stood tall and true, MacLeod by name, immortal fame, a sword-hand fierce and true! In Glenfinnan's shadow born, some four score years and ten, He lived and loved as mortals do, until that fateful when— A blade did pierce his beating heart, yet death refused its claim! Cast out as witch and devil-spawn, immortal he became. A mentor wise from ancient Spain, with blade and word did teach, "The Game," he said, "is all there is, and Prize beyond your reach. Your head, my friend, must stay attached, if you would hope to win, For when steel meets immortal neck, the Quickening begins!" Through centuries he wandered on, while friends turned dust and shade, The burden of eternal life, a heavy price he paid. Yet find him still in city streets, his sword concealed with care, For challengers seek out his name, and death hangs in the air! The Gathering calls them one by one, immortals far and wide, To battle in this final game where none may run or hide. For in the end, there can be but a single victor crowned, When last head falls and lightning calls, the Prize at last is found! So raise your cups and heed my tale, of life that knows no end, Of highland warrior, proud and bold, whose fate I now commend. Remember well this warning true, should you meet his keen gaze: Immortals walk among us still, through time's unending maze!
