Across the sea to Norway, Where thy sires make moan for thee, That the last of his race was Haco, Who ruled the Western Sea. And they laid thee, Haco, Haco, With thy sires on the Norway shore, And far from the isles of the sea, Haco, That know thy name no more. JOHN STUART BLACKIE. (_From “Lays of the Highlands and Islands.” By permission of the Walter Scott Publishing Company._) [Illustration: _A modern war-fleet in Kirkwall Bay._] THE OLD MAN OF HOY. The Old Man of Hoy Looks out on the sea, Where the tide runs strong and the wave rides free; He looks on the broad Atlantic sea, And the Old Man of Hoy Hath this great joy, To hear the deep roar of the wide blue ocean, And to stand unmoved ’mid the sleepless motion, And to feel o’er his head The white foam spread From the wild wave proudly swelling; And to care no whit For the storm’s rude fit, Where he stands on his old rock-dwelling— This rare Old Man of Hoy. The Old Man of Hoy Looks out on the sea, Where the tide runs strong and the wave rides free; He looks on the broad Atlantic sea, And the Old Man of Hoy Hath this great joy, To look on the flight of the wild seamew, With their hoar nests hung o’er the waters blue; To see them swing On plunging wing, And to hear their shrill notes swelling, And with them to reply To the storm’s war-cry, As he stands on his old rock-dwelling— This rare Old Man of Hoy.... The Old Man of Hoy Looks out on the sea, Where the tide runs strong and the wave rides free; He looks on the broad Atlantic sea, And the Old Man of Hoy Hath this great joy, To think on the pride of the sea-kings old— Harolds and Ronalds and Sigurds bold— Whose might was felt By the cowering Celt When he heard their war-cry yelling. But the sea-kings are gone, And he stands alone, Firm on his old rock-dwelling— This stout Old Man of Hoy. But listen to me, Old Man of the Sea, List to the Skulda that speaketh by me: The Nornies are weaving a web for thee, Thou Old Man of Hoy, To ruin thy joy, And to make thee shrink from the lash of the ocean, And teach thee to quake with a strange commotion, When over thy head And under thy bed The rampant wave is swelling; And thou shalt die ’Neath a pitiless sky, And reel from thy old rock-dwelling— Thou stout Old Man of Hoy!