But yet deeper revenge did Findhorn reap
As high, in his anger, his billows rose.
For he had wailed that his wave before
The dye of his children’s life’s-blood bore;
But now, full glutted with hostile dead,
He reared him aloft, shook his oak-crowned head,
And, roaring with fearful revelry,
He swept off his spoils to his kindred sea.
Who sits her and sighs on the castled isle
That on Loch-an-Dorbe’s dark breast doth float?