Where Scarba and Jura And Islay are near; Grand land of rough mountains, I wish thee good cheer, I wish young Sir Norman On mainland and islands To be named with proud honour, First chief of the Highlands! To be praised with proud honour First chief of the Highlands, For wisdom and valour, In far and nigh lands; For mettle and manhood There’s none may compare With the handsome Macleod Of the princeliest air. And the blood through his veins, That so proudly doth fare, From the old Kings of Lochlann Flows richly and rare. Each proud earl in Alba Is knit with his line, And Erin shakes hands with him Over the brine. And Erin shakes hands with him Over the brine; Brave son of brave father, The pride of his line, In camp and in council Whose virtue was seen, And his purse was as free As his claymore was keen. · · · · · With my heart I thee worship Thou shapeliest Knight, Wellgirt in the grace Of the red and the white; With an eye like the blaeberry Blue on the brae, And cheeks like the haws On the hedge by the way. With a cheek like the haws On the hedge by the way, ’Neath the rarest of locks In rich curly display; And the guest in thy hall With glad cheer shall behold Rich choice of rare armour In brass and in gold, etc. It needs some of Mary’s own imagination to picture her going about in after days wearing a tartan _tonnag_, fastened in front with a large silver brooch, and carrying a silver-headed cane. Hardy to a degree in mind and constitution, the venerable nurse and poetess, when long past the natural span of years, was much given, we are told, to gossip, snuff, and whisky. After her death, which took place at Dunvegan in 1674, she was buried in her native isle of Harris.