And bid them in their Maker hope,
The boat is making a good way,
No man will die but him that’s fey,
We’ve all in dangers been ere now:
At Nicolson’s rock they brought her to,
Near Scorebreck in Trotternish,
Their lodging in a byre it was,
All wet and weary as they were,
Lay on the ground, sleep seiz’d him there,
In which he sigh’d, and starting said,