Such were the sires of Zetland's simple race,
And still the eye may faint resemblance trace
In the blue eye, tall form, proportion fair,
The limbs athletic, and the long light hair,
Such was the mien, as Scald and Minstrel sings,
Of fair-haired Harold, first of Norway's Kings;-
But their high deeds to scale these crags confined,
Their only welfare is with waves and wind.

Why should I talk of Mousa's castle coast? Why of the horrors of the Sunburgh Rost? May not these bald disjointed lines suffice, Penned while my comrades whirl the rattling diceWhile down the cabin skylight lessening shine The rays, and eve is chased with mirth and wine?. Imagined, while down Mousa's desert bay Our well-trimmed vessel urged her nimble way, While to the freshening breeze she leaned her side, And bade her bowsprit kiss the foamy tide?

Such are the lays that Zetland's Isles supply; Drenched with the drizzly spray and dropping sky, Weary and wet, a sea-sick minstrel I.

W. SCOTT.

POSTSCRIPTUM

KIRKWALL, ORKNEY, AUG. 13, 1814.

In respect that your Grace has commissioned a Kraken, You will please be informed that they seldom are taken; It is January two years, the Zetland folks say, Since they saw the last Kraken in Scalloway bay;

He lay in the offing a fortnight or more,

But the devil a Zetlander put from the shore,
Though bold in the seas of the North to assail

The morse and the sea-horse, the grampus and whale.
If your Grace thinks I'm writing the thing that is not,
You may ask at a namesake of ours, Mr. Scott
He's not from our clan, though his merits deserve it,
But springs, I'm informed, from the Scotts of Scots-

tarvet;

He questioned the folks who beheld it with eyes,
But they differed confoundedly as to its size.

For instance, the modest and diffident swore
That it seemed like the keel of a ship and no more
Those of eyesight more clear or of fancy more high
Said it rose like an island 'twixt ocean and sky -
But all of the hulk had a steady opinion

That 't was sure a live subject of Neptune's dominion

And I think, my Lord Duke, your Grace hardly would

wish,

To cumber your house, such a kettle of fish.

Had your order related to night-caps or hose
Or mittens of worsted, there's plenty of those.
Or would you be pleased but to fancy a whale?
And direct me to send it by sea or by mail?
The season, I'm told, is nigh over, but still

I could get you one fit for the lake at Bowhill.
Indeed, as to whales, there's no need to be thrifty,
Since one day last fortnight two hundred and fifty,
Pursued by seven Orkneymen's boats and no more,
Betwixt Truffness and Luffness were drawn on the shore!
You'll ask if I saw this same wonderful sight;

I own that I did not, but easily might

For this mighty shoal of leviathans lay

On our lee-beam a mile, in the loop of the bay,
And the islesmen of Sanda were all at the spoil,
And flinching
so term it the blubber to boil;

Ye spirits of lavender, drown the reflection

That awakes at the thoughts of this odorous dissec

tion.

To see this huge marvel full fain would we go,

But Wilson, the wind, and the current said no.

We have now got to Kirkwall, and needs I must stare
When I think that in verse I have once called it fair;
'Tis a base little borough, both dirty and mean-
There is nothing to hear and there's nought to be seen,
Save a church where of old times a prelate harangued,
And a palace that's built by an earl that was hanged.

But farewell to Kirkwall-aboard we are going,
The anchor's a-peak and the breezes are blowing;

Our commodore calls all his band to their places,

And 't is time to release you-good-night to your Graces!

SONGS AND VERSES FROM WAVERLEY

Published in 1814.

I

'AND DID YE NOT HEAR OF A MIRTH BEFELL'

To the tune of 'I have been a Fiddler,' etc.

"The following song, which has been since borrowed by the worshipful author of the famous History of Fryar Bacon, has been with difficulty deciphered. It seems to have been sung on occasion of carrying home the bride.' (Appendix to General Preface.)

AND did ye not hear of a mirth befell
The morrow after a wedding day,
And carrying a bride at home to dwell?
And away to Tewin, away, away.

The quintain was set, and the garlands were made,
'Tis pity old customs should ever decay;
And woe be to him that was horsed on a jade,
For he carried no credit away, away.

We met a concert of fiddle-de-dees;

We set them a-cockhorse, and made them play The winning of Bullen, and Upsey-frees,

And away to Tewin, away, away!

There was ne'er a lad in all the parish
That would go to the plough that day;