ADDRESS TO RANALD MACDONALD OF STAFFA. (1814) STAFFA, Sprung from high Macdonald, Health from the land where eddying whirlwinds toss The storm-rock'd cradle of the Cape of Noss; On outstretch'd cords the giddy engine slides, His own strong arm the bold adventurer guides, And he that lists such desperate feat to try, May, like the sea-mew, skim 'twixt surf and sky, And feel the mid-air gales around him blow, And see the billows rage five hundred feet below. Here, by each stormy peak and desert shore, The hardy islesman tugs the daring oar, Practised alike his venturous course to keep Through the white breakers or the pathless deep, By ceaseless peril and by toil to gain A wretched pittance from the niggard main. And when the worn-out drudge old ocean leaves What comfort greets him, and what hut receives? Lady! the worst your presence ere has cheer'd (When want and sorrow fled as you appear'd) Were to a Zetlander as the high dome Of proud Drumlanrig to my humble home. Here rise no groves, and here no gardens blow, Here even the hardy heath scarce dares to grow; But rocks on rocks, in mist and storm array'd, Stretch far to sea their giant colonnade, With many a cavern seam'd, the dreary haunt Of the dun seal and swarthy cormo rant. Wild round their rifted brows, with frequent cry As of lament, the gulls and gannets fly, And from their sable base, with sullen sound, In sheets of whitening foam the waves rebound. Yet even these coasts a touch of envy gain From those whose land has known oppression's chain; For here the industrious Dutchman comes once more To moor his fishing craft by Bressay's shore ; Greets every former mate and brother tar, Marvels how Lerwick 'scaped the rage of war, Tells many a tale of Gallic outrage done, And ends by blessing God and Wellington. Here too the Greenland tar, a fiercer guest, Claims a brief hour of riot, not of rest; Proves each wild frolic that in wine has birth, And wakes the land with brawls and boisterous mirth. A sadder sight on yon poor vessel's prow The captive Norseman sits in silent woe, A bark with planks so warp'd and seams so riven, She scarce might face the gentlest airs of heaven: Pensive he sits, and questions oft if none Can list his speech, and understand his moan; In vain no Islesman now can use the tongue Of the bold Norse, from whom their lineage sprung. Not thus of old the Norsemen hither came, Won by the love of danger or of fame; On every stormbeat cape a shapeless tower Tells of their wars, their conquests, and their power; For ne'er for Grecia's vales, nor Latian land, Was fiercer strife than for this barren strand; A race severe-the isle and ocean lords Loved for its own delight the strife of swords; With scornful laugh the mortal pang defied, And blest their gods that they in battle died. 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, And eyes the flags of Britain as they Of fair-hair'd Harold, first of Norway's Why should I talk of Mousa's castled coast? Why of the horrors of the Sumburgh Rost? May not these bald disjointed lines suffice, Penn'd while my comrades whirl the rattling dice While 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-trimm'd vessel urged her nimble way, While to the freshening breeze she lean'd her side, 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 Scotstarvet); He question'd the folks who beheld it with eyes, But they differ'd confoundedly as to its size. For instance, the modest and diffident swore And bade her bowsprit kiss the foamy | That it seem'd 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 'twas 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 nightcaps or hose, Or mittens of worsted, there's plenty of those. Or would you be pleased but to fancy a whale ? You will please be inform'd that they And direct me to send it-by sea or 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 won- I own that I did not, but easily might― lay THE A. OF WA (Author of Waverley.) No, John, I will not own the book- On our lee-beam a mile, in the loop As if before them they had got 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 dissection). 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 call'd it fair; The worn-out wriggler WALTER SCOTT. FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE, HIGH CHIEF OF KINTAIL. (1815) (From the Gaelic.) 'FAREWELL to Mackenneth, great Earl of the North, The Lord of Lochcarron, Glenshiel, and Seaforth; To the Chieftain this morning his course who began, 'Tis a base little borough, both dirty Launching forth on the billows his and mean. Awake in thy chamber, thou sweet southland gale! Like the sighs of his people, breathe soft on his sail; Be prolong'd as regret, that his vassals must know, Be fair as their faith, and sincere as their woe: Be so soft, and so fair, and so faithful, sweet gale, Wafting onward Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail! Be his pilot experienced, and trusty, and wise, But no bard was there left in the land of the Gael To lament for Mackenzie, last Chief of Kintail. And shalt thou then sleep, did the Minstrel exclaim, Like the son of the lowly, unnoticed by fame? No, son of Fitzgerald! in accents of woe The song thou hast loved o'er thy coffin shall flow, And teach thy wild mountains to join in the wail To measure the seas and to study That laments for Mackenzie, last Chief Now mute on thy mountains, O Albyn, Thy sons rose around thee in light |