And O, man," he cried in a kind of ecstasy, "am I no a bonny fighter ?" Thereupon he turned to the four enemies, passed his sword clean through each of them, and tumbled them out of doors one after the other.

As he did so, he kept humming and singing and whistling to himself, like a man trying to recall an air; only what HE was trying was to make one.

All the while, the flush was in his face, and his eyes were as bright as a five-year-old child's with a new toy.

And presently he sat down upon the table, sword in hand; the air that he was making all the time began to run a little clearer, and then clearer still; and then out he burst with a great voice into a Gaelic song.
I have translated it here, not in verse (of which I have no skill) but at least in the king's English.
He sang it often afterwards, and the thing became popular; so that I have, heard it, and had it explained to me, many's the time.
"This is the song of the sword of Alan; The smith made it, The fire set it; Now it shines in the hand of Alan Breck.
"Their eyes were many and bright, Swift were they to behold, Many the hands they guided: The sword was alone.
"The dun deer troop over the hill, They are many, the hill is one; The dun deer vanish, The hill remains.
"Come to me from the hills of heather, Come from the isles of the sea.

O far-beholding eagles, Here is your meat." Now this song which he made (both words and music) in the hour of our victory, is something less than just to me, who stood beside him in the tussle.