And as he walk’d to self he talked,
Some ancient ditty thrumming,
In under tone, as not alone—
Now whistling, and now humming—
“You’re welcome, Charlie,” “Cowdenknowes,”
“Kenmure,” or “Campbells’ Coming.”
Down went the wind, down went the wave,
Fear quitted the most finical;
The Saints, I wot, were soon forgot,
And Hope was at the pinnacle: