Comes laughing, laughing, laughing, and crying Home! Home!
And is there any home for him, whose portion is the night?
And is there any peace for him whose doom is endless flight?
O wild sad bird, O wind-spent bird, O bird upon the wave,
There is no home for thee, wild bird, but in the cold sea-grave!
Sheumas leaned against the tiller of the Luath, and looked at Isla. He saw a shadow on his face. With his right foot the man tapped against a loose spar that was on the starboard deck.
When the singer ceased, Isla raised his arm and shook menacingly his clenched fist, over across the water to where the Brudhearg lay.
There were words on his lips, but they died away when Neil Macalpine broke into a love song, “Mo nighean donn.”
“Can you be telling me, Isla,” said Sheumas, “who was the man that made that song about the homeless man?”
“Ian Mòr.”