And good may this Tide be, and good may it bring:
And may there be no calling in the Flow, this Srùth-màra,
And may there be no burden in the Ebb! ochone!
An ainm an Athar, s’ an Mhic, s’ an Spioraid Naoimh,
Biodh an Tri-aon leinn, a la’s a dh’ oidhche,
S’ air chul nan tonn, no air thaobh nam beann!
Ochone! arone!
Both men sang the closing lines, with loudly swelling voices, and with a wailing fervour which no words of mine could convey.
Runes of this kind prevail all over the isles, from the Butt of Lewis to the Rhinns of Islay: identical in spirit, though varying in lines and phrases, according to the mood and temperament of the rannaiche or singer, the local or peculiar physiognomy of nature, the instinctive yielding to hereditary wonder-words, and other compelling circumstances of the outer and inner life. Almost needless to say, the sea-maid or sea-witch and the Wave-Haunter occur in many of those wild runes, particularly in those that are impromptu. In the Outer Hebrides, the runes are wild natural hymns rather than Pagan chants: though marked distinctions prevail there also,—for in Harris and the Lews the folk are Protestant almost to a man, while in Benbecula and the Southern Hebrides the Catholics are in a like ascendancy. But all are at one in the common Brotherhood of Sorrow.
The only lines in Ivor McLean’s wailing song which puzzled me were the two last which came before “the good words,” “in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Spirit,” etc.