Which made them all in haste to turn,
And put into the isle of Euirn,
A desart place, where none abode,
One mile in length, another broad,
Where fishers oft frequent by day;
But seeing them all fled away,
Thinking they were the King’s press-boat,
Their fish behind was all forgot,
Both fresh and drying on the rock,
Of Cod and Ling, the poor men’s stock;