Where militia boats were out on spy,
Which otherwise he’d not got by:
But this vi’lent storm they could not stand,
All fled for shelter to the land.
Now on this isle they landed were;
But found no house or shelter there,
Except an old stye of a byre,
Wherein they kindled up a fire,
Shot a cow and did her boil,
And made fine brochan of her oil.