As the bold, bright lady spoke—
And McDonald glanced over his rival again,
And bow'd with a bargeman's stroke.
'Tis summer upon the Antrim shore—
The shore of shores it is—
Where the white old rocks deep caves arch o'er,
Unfathom'd by man I wis—
Where the basalt breast of our isle flings back
The Scandinavian surge,
To howl through its native Scaggerack,