He felt the cheering power of spring, It made him whistle, it made him sing; His heart was mirthful to excess, But the Rover’s mirth was wickedness. His eye was on the Inchcape float, Quoth he, ‘My men, put out the boat, And row me to the Inchcape Rock, And I’ll plague the abbot of Aberbrothok.’ The boat is lower’d, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape Rock they go; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float. Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound, The bubbles rose and burst around; Quoth Sir Ralph, ‘The next who comes to the rock Won’t bless the abbot of Aberbrothok.’ Sir Ralph the Rover sail’d away, He scour’d the seas for many a day; And now grown rich with plunder’d store, He steers his course for Scotland’s shore. So thick a haze o’erspreads the sky, They cannot see the sun on high; And the wind hath blown a gale all day, At evening it hath died away. On the deck the Rover takes his stand, So dark it is they see no land: Quoth Sir Ralph, ‘It will be lighter soon, For there is the dawn of the rising moon.’ ‘Canst hear,’ said one, ‘the breakers roar? For methinks we should be near the shore;’ ‘Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish we could hear the Inchcape bell!’ They hear no sound, the swell is strong, Though the wind hath fallen they drift along, Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, ‘Oh Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock.’ Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, He curst himself in his despair; The waves rush in on every side, The ship is sinking beneath the tide. But even in his dying fear One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, A sound as if with the Inchcape bell, The devil below was ringing his knell. But whatever may be the truth of these traditions, it is certain that for a long period, perhaps centuries, no permanent distinguishing mark was attached to the rock until the building of the present lighthouse, whose history we have now briefly to state.