O Louis ! you that like them maist,

Ye're far frae kelpie, wraith, and ghaist,

And fairy dames, no unco chaste.

        And haunted cell.

Amang a heathen clan ye're placed,

        That kens na hell !

 

Ye hae nae heather, peat, nor birks,

Nae trout in a' yer burnies lurks,

There are nae bonny U.P. kirks,

        An awfu place !

Nane kens the Covenant o Works

        Frae that o Grace !

 

But whiles, maybe, to them ye'll read

Blads o the Covenanting creed,

And whiles their pagan wames ye'll feed

        On halesome parritch ;

And syne ye'll gar them learn a screed

        O the Shorter Carritch.

 

Yet thae uncovenanted shavers

Hae rowth, ye sae, o clash and clavers

O gods and etins, - auld wives' havers,

        But their delight ;

The voice o him that tells them quavers

        Just wi fair fright.

 

And ye might tell, ayont the faem,

Thae Hieland clashes o our hame.

To speak the truth, I tak na shame

        To half believe them ;

And, stamped wi Tusitala's name,

        They'll a' receive them.

 

And folk to come ayont the sea

May hear the yowl o the Banshie,

And frae the water-kelpie flee,

        Ere a' things cease,

And island bairns may stolen be

        By the folk o peace.