Saint Patrick who blessed our Island, bless us and our boat,
Going out well, coming in better,
With living and dead in the boat.
HOW THE HERRING BECAME KING OF THE SEA
The old fishermen of the island have it to say that years and years ago the fish met to choose themselves a king, for they had no deemster to tell them what was right. Likely enough their meeting-place was off the Shoulder, south of the Calf. They all came looking their best—there was Captain Jiarg, the Red Gurnet, in his fine crimson coat; Grey Horse, the Shark, big and cruel; the Bollan in his brightest colours; Dirty Peggy, the Cuttle-fish, putting her nicest face on herself; Athag, the Haddock, trying to rub out the black spots the devil burnt on him when he took hold of him with his finger and thumb, and all the rest. Each one thought he might be chosen.
The Fish had a strong notion to make Brac Gorm, the Mackerel, king. He knew that, and he went and put beautiful lines and stripes on himself—pink and green and gold, and all the colours of the sea and sky. Then he was thinking diamonds of himself. But when he came he looked that grand that they didn’t know him. So they said that he was artificial and would have nothing to do with him.
In the end it was Skeddan, the Herring, the Lil Silver Fella, who was made King of the Sea.
When it was all over, up came the Fluke, too late to give his vote, and they all called out: