To Robert Louis Stevenson / Andrew Lang

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' Works

Frae that o' Grace!

But whiles, maybe, to them ye'll read

Blads o' the Covenanting creed,

And whiles their pagan wames ye'll feed

On halesome parritch;

And syne ye'll gar them learn a screed

O' the Shorter Carritch.

Yet thae uncovenanted shavers

Hae rowth, ye say, o' clash and clavers

O' gods and etins--auld wives' havers,

But their delight;

The voice o' him that tells them quavers

Just wi' fair fright.

And ye might tell, ayont the faem,

Thae Hieland clashes o' our hame

To speak the truth, I takna shame

To half believe them;

And, stamped wi' Tusitala's name,

They'll a' receive them.

And folk to come ayont the sea

May hear the yowl o' the Banshie,

And frae the water-kelpie flee,

Ere a' things cease,

And island bairns may stolen be

By the Folk o' Peace.