As the Lord of the elements has ordained,
A wind that needs not rowing nor reefing,
That will do nought deceitful to us.”
“Weak and trifling you have asked it,” said the skipper, “when I myself am at the helm.” Mac-Vuirich answered:
“A north wind hard as a rod,
Struggling above our gunwale,
Like a red roe sore pressed,
Descending a hillock’s narrow hard head.”
“It does not attain to praise yet,” said the skipper, and Mac-Vuirich went on:
“If there be a wind in cold hell,