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“Health to the Chieftain from his clansman true!
From her true minstrel health to fair Buccleuch!
Health from the isles, where dewy Morning weaves
Her chaplet with the tints that Twilight leaves;
Where late the sun scarce vanished from the sight,
And his bright pathway graced the short-lived night,
Though darker now as autumn’s shades extend,
The north winds whistle and the mists ascend.
Health from the land where eddying whirlwinds toss
The storm-rocked cradle of the Cape of Noss;
On outstretched 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.
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‘Here by each stormy peak and desert shore,
The hardy islesman tugs the daring oar,
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| 280 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. |
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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 cheered
(When want and sorrow fled as you appeared)
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 arrayed,
Stretch far to sea their giant colonnade,
With many a cavern seam’d, the dreary haunt
Of the dun seal and swarthy cormorant.
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.
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“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 Norse-man sits in silent wo,
And eyes the flags of Britain as they flow.
Hard fate of war, which bade her terrors sway
His destined course, and seize so mean a prey;
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;
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| LETTERS TO THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH. | 281 |
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In vain—no islesman now can use the tongue
Of the bold Norse, from whom their lineage sprung.
Not thus of old the Norse-men hither came,
Won by the love of danger or of fame;
On every storm-beat 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 blessed their gods that they in battle died.
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“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 warfare is with waves and wind.
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“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 leaned her side—
And bade her bowsprit kiss the foamy tide—?
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“Such are the lays that Zetland Isles supply;
Drenched with the drizzly spray and dropping sky,
Weary and wet, a sea-sick minstrel I.—
W. Scott.”
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“In respect that your grace has commissioned a Kraken,
You will please be informed that they seldom are taken;
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| 282 | LIFE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. |
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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 inform’d, from the Scotts of
Scotstarvet);*
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 ’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 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 Orkney men’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 dissection).
To see this huge marvel, full fain would we go,
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* The Scotts of Scotstarvet, and other families of the name in. Fife and elsewhere, claim no kindred with the great clan of the Border and their aruiorial bearings are entirely different. |
| LETTERS TO THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH. | 283 |
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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 ’tis time to release you—good night to your Graces!”
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