Here by each stormy peak and desert shore, The hardy islesman tugs the daring oar, Practised alike his venturous course to keep, Through the white breakers or the pathless deep, By ceaseless peril and by toil to gain A wretched pittance from the niggard main. And when the worn-out drudge old ocean leaves, What comfort greets him, and what hut receives? Lady! the worst your presence ere has cheered (When want and sorrow fled as you appeared) Were to a Zetlander as the high dome Of proud Drumlanrig to my humble home. Here rise no groves, and here no gardens blow, Here even the hardy heath scarce dares to grow; But rocks on rocks, in mist and storm arrayed, Stretch far to sea their giant colonnade, With many a cavern seam'd, the dreary haunt Of the dun seal and swarthy cormorant. Wild round their rifted brows with frequent cry, As of lament, the gulls and gannets fly, And from their sable base, with sullen sound, In sheets of whitening foam the waves rebound. Yet even these coasts a touch of envy gain From those whose land has known oppression's chain; For here the industrious Dutchman comes once more To moor his fishing craft by Bressay's shore; Greets every former mate and brother tar, Marvels how Lerwick 'scaped the rage of war, Tells many a tale of Gallic outrage done, And ends by blessing God and Wellington. Here too the Greenland tar, a fiercer guest, Claims a brief hour of riot, not of rest; Proves each wild frolic that in wine has birth, And wakes the land with brawls and boisterous mirth. A sadder sight on yon poor vessel's prow The captive Norse-man sits in silent woe, And eyes the flags of Britain as they flow. Hard fate of war, which bade her terrors sway His destined course, and seize so mean a prey; A bark with planks so warp'd and seams so riven, She scarce might face the gentlest airs of heaven: Pensive he sits, and questions oft if none Can list his speech and understand his moan; In vain--no islesman now can use the tongue Of the bold Norse, from whom their lineage sprung. Not thus of old the Norse-men hither came, Won by the love of danger or of fame; On every storm-beat cape a shapeless tower Tells of their wars, their conquests, and their power; For ne'er for Grecia's vales, nor Latian land, Was fiercer strife than for this barren strand; A race severe--the isle and ocean lords, Loved for its own delight the strife of swords; With scornful laugh the mortal pang defied, And blest their gods that they in battle died. Such were the sires of Zetland's simple race, And still the eye may faint resemblance trace In the blue eye, tall form, proportion fair, The limbs athletic, and the long light hair-- (Such was the mien, as Scald and Minstrel sings, Of fair-haired Harold, first of Norway's Kings); But their high deeds to scale these crags confined, Their only warfare is with waves and wind.