To Robert Louis Stevenson
WITH KIRK’S ‘SECRET COMMONWEALTH’
O LOUIS! you that like them maist,Ye’re far frae kelpie, wraith, and ghaist,And fairy dames, no unco chaste,And haunted cell.Among a heathen clan ye’re placed,That kensna 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’ WorksFrae that o’ Grace!
But whiles, maybe, to them ye’ll readBlads o’ the Covenanting creed,And whiles their pagan wames ye’ll feedOn halesome parritch;And syne ye’ll gar them learn a screedO’ the Shorter Carritch.
Yet thae uncovenanted shaversHae rowth, ye say, o’ clash and claversO’ gods and etins—auld wives’ havers,But their delight;The voice o’ him that tells them quaversJust wi’ fair fright.
And ye might tell, ayont the faem,Thae Hieland clashes o’ our hameTo speak the truth, I takna shameTo half believe them;And, stamped wi’ Tusitala’s name,They’ll a’ receive them.
And folk to come ayont the seaMay hear the yowl o’ the Banshie,And frae the water-kelpie flee,Ere a’ things cease,And island bairns may stolen beBy the Folk o’ Peace.