Downward on Islay and over the sea
I look, and I wonder how time hath deceived me—
A stranger in Scarba, who ne’er thought to be.
Ne’er thought it, my island, where rest the deep dark shade
The grand mossy mountains for ages have made;
God bless thee! and prosper thy chief of the sharp blade
All over these islands his fame never fade!
Never fade it, Sir Norman! for well ’tis the right
Of thy name to win credit in counsel or fight—
By wisdom, by shrewdness, by spirit, by might,