Part IV.—Legend and Lay.

THE OLD GODS.

In the north of Europe there lived long ago that race of people whom we

know as the Norsemen—tall, fair-haired men, strong and warlike, and as

much at home on sea as on land. They came to Britain in great numbers

at different times, and many of them settled there. We read of them

sometimes as Vikings, sometimes as Danes, and sometimes as Normans. The

Saxon settlers of a still earlier time were of the same kindred. We have

already told the story of their settlement in Orkney, and of the earldom

which they established there. Everything that we can find out about this

wonderful race of sea-rovers and warriors is of interest to us; for

while most of the lowland dwellers of Scotland and England have some

Norse blood in their veins, we who live in these northern islands regard

ourselves as the lineal descendants of those Vikings.

Before the Norsemen became Christians, they believed in many gods and

goddesses. They had gods of the sky and of the sea, of spring and of

summer, of thunder and lightning, of frost and of storm. Many a strange

tale they told of the doings of their gods, and most of those tales are

really pictures of the processes that take place in nature—of the wars

between wind and sea, between light and darkness, and between sun and

frost.

In the beginning, they believed, there was the great Spirit, the Creator.

Of him they have no tales to tell. Then the world was made—or rather

the worlds, for the Norsemen thought that besides this world of men

there were a world of the gods, a world of the giants, and other worlds.

Between Asgard, the home of the gods, and Midgard, the world of men, a

beautiful bridge was built, which we call the rainbow.

Odin was the highest of the gods. He was the god of wisdom and of

victory, and the friend of heroes. Men spoke of him as tall and strong,

with long, flowing hair and beard, and wearing a wide blue mantle flecked

with white, as the blue sky is flecked with fleecy clouds. On his

shoulders sat two ravens, Thought and Memory. They roamed over the world

every day, and came back at night to whisper in his ear all they had seen

and heard. At his feet crouched two wolves, which he fed with his own

hand.

Odin had three palaces in Asgard. One of these was Valhalla, the home

of heroes; and hither came at their death all the brave men Odin loved

so well. He sent forth beautiful maidens to hover over every field of

battle, and to carry home to Valhalla those who fell in the fight. In

Valhalla the brave lived for ever. They spent their days in fighting, as

they had loved to do on earth; but every evening the warriors returned

to the hall of feasting, unhurt, and the best of friends. Such was the

Norsemen’s idea of a heaven for heroes.

Odin gave men wisdom as well as courage. Only through suffering, however,

did he become the god of wisdom. It happened on this wise. Far below

the world of the giants was a crystal spring which watered the roots of

the tree of life—a great tree reaching up to heaven. This well was the

fountain of wisdom, and whoever drank of it became wise. It was guarded

by a giant called Mimir, or Memory. Mimir was older than the gods, and

wiser than they, for he remembered all things. Odin went down below the

world of the giants one day, and he said to Mimir, “Give me a drink of

the clear water of your well.”

“Ah,” said Mimir, “this water is never given to any except at a great

price. You must be willing to give up the most precious thing you possess

before you can drink at Mimir’s fountain.”

“Be it so,” replied Odin; “I will give whatever you ask.”

Mimir looked at him, admiring his courage, and at length replied, “If you

would drink, you must leave with me one of your eyes.”

This was a great price to pay, but Odin did not flinch. He drank of the

fountain, and came back to Asgard with only one eye, but he had won the

wisdom he desired.

Thor was the god of thunder; he was the champion of the gods, and

defended Asgard against the giants. His was the largest palace in Asgard;

it had five hundred and forty halls and many great doors, and was called

by a name which means Lightning. Thor wore a crown of stars upon his

head, and rode in a chariot drawn by two goats, from whose hoofs and

teeth flashed sparks of fire. To Thor belonged three very precious

things. The first was his mighty hammer, with which he fought the frost

giants. The second was his belt of strength: when he girded himself with

this his strength was doubled. The third was his iron gauntlet: with this

he grasped his famous hammer, which he made red-hot when he fought the

giants.

Loki was the spirit of evil and mischief. Having been banished from

Asgard for his wickedness, he lived many years in giant-land, rejoicing

in his evil deeds. He had three children, each as full of evil as

himself. So much mischief did they work that Odin looked down from Asgard

with a grave countenance. “This must not be,” he said; “Loki’s children

will fill the world with evil.” So Odin fared forth to giant-land. One of

the evil brood he sent to the under world of darkness, and one he threw

into the sea. The third, Fenris the wolf, was so strong that Odin spared

him. “If he were to live with the gods,” he said, “his strength might be

turned to good instead of ill.” So he took Fenris the wolf up to Asgard,

to see whether he would learn goodness with his strength.

Who among the gods would care for the wolf-spirit? Brave Tyr was ready

with the answer. “Father Odin,” he cried, “I delight in strength. Let me

have the charge of this fierce fellow; I care not if the task be hard and

dull.” So Fenris became his charge. He fed him with sheep and oxen, and

took him with him upon his journeys. But Fenris did not learn the ways of

the gods. His muscles were like iron, and his teeth stronger than steel,

but his heart remained savage and cruel.

One night Odin called the gods together. “Sons,” he said, “I have looked

upon Fenris, and seen his cruel strength. There is no love in his eyes,

and no thought of good in his heart. Day by day he becomes stronger for

evil. We must bind him, or he will destroy us.” They listened, and saw

that the counsel of Odin was good. “Come with me,” said Thor the mighty;

“I will forge a chain that will hold him fast.” All night long the gods

watched Thor toiling at his anvil, dealing great blows upon the glowing

iron, and sending sparks like shooting-stars through the darkness. When

morning came the massive chain was finished.

“Come, Fenris,” called Thor, “you are strong; let us see you break this

chain which I have made.” Fenris allowed them to bind him with the heavy

links: when they had done so, he stretched his huge limbs, and the thick

iron snapped like a thread of silk. The gods kept silence as Fenris

walked away.

Again Thor led them to his forge; again he toiled all night, hammering

and shaping great bars of steel. When morning came, another chain was

ready, ten times stronger than the first. But this chain also snapped

like a spider’s thread before the might of Fenris.

The gods once more sat in council, and Odin’s face was grave. “Great

indeed is the power of evil,” said the All-wise, “but the power of good

must be greater still. Sons, let us call to our aid the skill of the

dwarfs. Tyr shall tell them of our need, and they will help us to bind

the enemy.” Like an arrow from the bow, Tyr sped from Asgard to the cave

of the dwarfs, the skilful workers in gold and gems, and gladly they lent

their aid to Father Odin. Three nights they toiled in the darkness, and

then they brought to Tyr a delicate chain which might have been spun from

a cobweb. “Here is thy chain, O Tyr,” they said. “Fierce Fenris cannot

escape from its bands.”

When Tyr came back to Asgard, Fenris was called once more to test his

strength. He looked on the delicate thread, and he trembled; yet he would

not seem to be afraid. “If one of you will place his hand in my mouth,

so that there may be fair play, I will let you bind me,” he replied. The

gods looked in one another’s faces. Who would dare the power of the wolf?

Brave Tyr stepped forward and put his arm between the wolf’s jaws. The

tiny chain was wound round Fenris. He rose to stretch himself and shake

it off, but it held him fast. With a wild howl he gnashed his teeth

together, and Tyr stood before the gods without his strong right arm.

Then a great shout arose in Asgard, “Hail to Tyr! he has given his right

hand to save the world from evil.” It was echoed from the hills, and rang

through the caves of the dwarfs. “The chain of the dwarfs is mighty,”

they said, “but stronger is the brave heart of Tyr.” So wisdom and

goodness together were more than a match for strength and evil.

Baldur was the god of light. He was the fairest of all that dwelt in

Asgard, the best beloved of gods and men. Wherever he went he carried

with him that kindness and love which is to the heart of man what light

is to the sky. Every one loved him but Loki; the spirit of evil hated the

goodness that was in Baldur. Baldur’s palace was the home of all that

was bright and pure. It was built of the blue of the sky and the clear

crystal of running water. Here he lived in peace, for no evil thing

could enter. But Baldur became sad and troubled, for he dreamed that his

life was in danger.

Then his mother went abroad over the whole world, and made everything

promise not to hurt Baldur. Who would harm the beautiful god? Earth, air,

and water, beasts and birds, and plants and flowers—all things promised

never to hurt him. So his mother returned to Asgard with joy, but still

Baldur was sad. Then the gods invented a kind of game to cheer his heart.

They made him stand in the midst while they threw at him weapons and all

hurtful things, to show that nothing could do him harm; and thus they

amused themselves many days.

In the meantime Loki disguised himself as an old woman, and went to

Baldur’s mother. He said he marvelled that Baldur was not hurt, and then

the mother told him of the promise which all things had made never to

harm her son.

“What! have all things promised this?” asked Loki.

“Yes,” was the reply; “all things have promised except one weak little

plant, the mistletoe, which grows far away, and which I did not think it

worth while to ask.”

Loki rejoiced in his evil heart when he heard this. He hurried to the

place where the mistletoe grew, and plucked a twig of it, which by his

magic he made into a spear. Then he came back to Asgard, where the gods

were playing their game of throwing spears at Baldur.

“Why do you not join in the game?” he asked one of the gods.

“Because I am blind,” he replied.

“For the honour of Baldur you should throw a spear at him,” Loki went on.

“I have no spear to throw,” answered the blind god.

Then Loki put into his hand the mistletoe spear, and helped him to aim

it. The spear pierced Baldur through the heart, and he fell dead. Then

there were grief and anger in Asgard; weeping and mourning were heard for

the first time among the gods.

Odin sent a message to the daughter of Loki, who ruled over the world of

the dead, and asked her to set Baldur free. She replied that he would

be set free if every living thing would weep for him; but if a single

creature refused to weep, he could not return.

Then the gods went through all the earth, and prayed all things living to

weep for Baldur. One old woman alone refused, and so Baldur could not be

set free. The old woman was no other than Loki, who had taken this form

in order to hide himself.

After the death of Baldur came a gloomy time in Asgard. The gods had

fierce wars with the frost-giants, and were defeated. This time is called

“the twilight of the gods.” But even then they looked forward to a better

time which was to come, when Baldur should return, and all should be

light and joy and peace.

Thus the old Norsemen gave us the beautiful tale of Baldur, the sun-god.

When the days are short in winter, the time of the mistletoe, Baldur is

dead; but when spring returns, the war with the frost-giants is over, and

Baldur returns with light and joy to the northern lands.

A VANISHING ISLAND.

Eynhallow—the “holy island”—lies in the middle of the fierce tideway that

separates the Orcadian mainland from Rousay, the Hrolfsey of the Sagas.

“Eynhallow frank, Eynhallow free,

Eynhallow stands in the middle of the sea;

With a roaring roost on every side,

Eynhallow stands in the middle of the tide.”

So runs an old island rhyme, and surely never was there an island so

beaten upon and shouted round by the angry tides. It sets a black front

of jagged rocks to the Atlantic on the west, and the great billows,

rushing on the rocks, send spouts of spray high in the air, to whirl

eastward over the gradual slope of the isle. All day long the tide sweeps

past on either side, boiling and eddying like a swift and deep river.

When the wind is in the north-west and a strong ebb-tide is running, then

is the time to see the roosts in all their glory; for the inrolling ocean

swell meets the outrushing tide in the narrow channels, and the white

waves leap and roar as if some

“wallowing monster spouted

His foam fountains in the sea.”

To see this mad turmoil of the roost on a wild winter day is strange

and terrible; but when the white breakers shout and toss themselves in

the sunlight of a still June morning there is a paradoxical charm in

the sudden outburst of leaping, sparkling foam amid the blue waters,

unruffled of any wind, that the wildest storm of winter can never claim.

There is an even stronger fascination in the swift, dark, silent rush of

the tides, ceaseless along the shores, sweeping in with the flood and

whirling out again with the ebb, and with the little green isle in their

midst setting its steep front to the angry ocean, but sheltering with its

two long eastward points a quiet sandy bay where no current ever comes.

All along the coast, on either side of Eynhallow Sound, are low green

mounds, marking the places where once were the homes of the prehistoric

Orcadians, that Celtic or Pictish race which the conquering Norsemen

destroyed so completely that there is not in all the place-names of the

isles any trace of their forgotten tongue. Amidst such surroundings, one

has only to look at Eynhallow to know that it must have gathered legend

and tradition in the long years.

In Rousay there still lingers a tale of the breaking of the spell that

held Eynhallow sea-bound; for “once upon a time” the isle was enchanted,

and visible to human eyes only at rare intervals. It would rise suddenly

out of the sea, and vanish as suddenly before any mortal could reach it.

And if any one should feel inclined to doubt this tale, can we not point

him to the isle of Heather-Bleather, which is still held by the spell of

the sea-folk, and appears and disappears even unto this day?

When Eynhallow was still a vanishing island, it became known in Rousay

that if any man, seeing the isle, should hold steel in his hand and,

taking boat, go out through the tides, never looking at aught but the

island, nor ever letting go the steel till he leaped on to its virgin

shore, that man should break the spell and win the isle from the sea-folk

for his own people. After many failures—and who can tell how many a brave

heart went down the tide to the sea-trows in that perilous venture?—there

came at last the hour and the man; the vanishing isle was won from the

waters, and left standing “in the middle of the tide.”

If there be yet any man brave enough to try the adventure of the

vanishing island, Heather-Bleather awaits his coming. I have never met

any person who would confess to having seen that mysterious isle, but

many of the dwellers by the roosts have spoken to those who saw it rise

green out of the waters. This island is the home of the Fin-men or

Sea-men (not to be too rashly identified with the sea-trows), a race of

beings who play a prominent part in Orcadian folk-lore.

In Rousay they tell of a maiden mysteriously rapt from the hillside over

the sea, and sought in vain by her kindred. Long years after, “when grief

was calm and hope was dead,” the lost girl’s father and brothers were at

sea in their fishing-boat, when there rolled down upon them one of those

dense banks of sea-fog so common in the North in summer. The fishermen

knew not where they were, but sailed on until their boat grounded on

an island which at first they took to be Eynhallow. They soon found,

however, that they were on an island they had never seen before, and on

going up to a “white house” they found in the “guid-wife” who admitted

them their long lost daughter and sister. She welcomed them, and in a

little time her husband and his brother came in from the sea in “wisps”

(the local name for great rolls of heather “simmons,” or ropes, used

in thatching houses). Others say that they came in the guise of seals,

and cast off their skins. Be that as it may, they treated their human

connections well and hospitably. When the time came for the men to leave

for home, the woman refused to accompany them, but she gave her father

a knife, and told him that so long as he kept it he could come to the

isle of the waters whenever he pleased. Just as the boat put to sea the

knife slipped from the old man’s hand into the water; in a moment the fog

swallowed the island, and no man has set foot on it since.

In summer and autumn evenings, when the sea-fog comes rolling up in great

banks from the Atlantic, and the westering sun fills the hollows between

with fantastic lights and shadows—when the islands seem all to shift and

change, appearing and disappearing among the huge masses of white vapour,

it requires no very strong imagination to see once more the green isle

of Heather-Bleather riding the waters, real and solid as its sister of

Eynhallow, won so long since from the sea-folk.

Of its old enchantment the isles-folk say that Eynhallow still retains

some small part. No steel or iron stake, such as are used for tethering

cattle, will remain in its soil after sunset. Of their own motion they

leap from the ground at the moment when the sea swallows the sun. Then,

again, no rat or mouse can live upon the island, and it is not long since

it was usual to bring boatloads of earth from Eynhallow to lay under the

foundations of new houses, and under the corn-stacks in the farmyard. It

was firmly believed that through the charmed earth no mouse or rat could

pass.

DUNCAN J. ROBERTSON

_(The Scots Magazine). By Permission._

[Since the preceding article first appeared, a very interesting discovery

has been made on Eynhallow, which may help to explain both the name of

the island—the “Holy Isle”—and the existence of so many supernatural

legends regarding it. References are made in the Sagas to a monastery

in Orkney in Norse times, and it is recorded that an abbot from this

monastery was appointed to that of Melrose in 1175. Many probable

sites were suggested as having been occupied by this monastery, but no

remains could be found, and some doubt was felt as to whether it ever

really existed in Orkney at all. In the year 1900, however, Professor

Dietrichson, a Norwegian, examined the ruins on Eynhallow, and was able

to show that they are the long-sought remains of the lost monastery—small

in size, but complete in all the details of a Cistercian monastery of the

period referred to in the Sagas.]

HELEN WATERS: A LEGEND OF SULE SKERRY.

The mountains of Hoy, the highest of the Orkney Islands, rise abruptly

out of the ocean to an elevation of fifteen hundred feet, and terminate

on one side in a cliff, sheer and stupendous as if the mountain had been

cut down through the middle and the severed portion of it buried in the

sea. Immediately on the landward side of this precipice lies a soft green

valley, embosomed among huge black cliffs, where the sound of the human

voice or the report of a gun is reverberated among the rocks till it

gradually dies away into soft and softer echoes.

The hills are intersected by deep and dreary glens, where the hum of the

world is never heard, and the only voices of life are the bleat of the

lamb and the shriek of the eagle. The breeze wafts not on its wings the

whisper of the woodland, for there are no trees on the island; the roar

of the torrent stream and the sea’s eternal moan for ever sadden those

solitudes of the world.

The ascent of the mountain is in some parts almost perpendicular, and in

all exceedingly steep; but the admirer of Nature in her grandest and most

striking aspects will be amply compensated for his toil, upon reaching

their summits, by the magnificent prospect which they afford. Towards

the north and east, the vast expanse of the ocean, and the islands, with

their dark heath-clad hills, their green vales, and gigantic cliffs,

expand below as far as the eye can reach. The view towards the south is

bounded by the lofty mountains of Scaraben and Morven, and by the wild

hills of Strathnaver and Cape Wrath, stretching towards the west. In the

direction of the latter, and far away in mid-ocean, may be seen, during

clear weather, a barren rock called Sule Skerry, which superstition in

former days had peopled with mermaids and monsters of the deep. This

solitary spot had long been known to the Orcadians as the haunt of

sea-fowl and seals, and was the scene of frequent shooting excursions,

though such perilous adventures have been long since abandoned. It is

associated in my mind with a wild tale, which I have heard in my youth,

though I am uncertain whether or not the circumstances which it narrates

are yet in the memory of living men.

On the opposite side of the mountainous island of which I speak, and

divided from it by a frith of several miles in breadth, lie the flat

serpentine shores of the principal island or Mainland, where, upon a

gentle slope, at a short distance from the sea-beach, may still be traced

the site of a cottage, once the dwelling of a humble couple of the name

of Waters, belonging to the class of small proprietors.

Their only child Helen, at the time to which my narration refers, was

just budding into womanhood; and though uninitiated into what would now

be considered the indispensable requisites of female education, was yet

not altogether unaccomplished for the simple times in which she lived,

and, though a child of nature, had a grace beyond the reach of art.

Henry Graham, the accepted lover of Helen Waters, was the son of a small

proprietor in the neighbourhood; and being of the same humble rank with

herself, and, though not rich, removed from poverty, their views were

undisturbed by the dotage of avarice or the fears of want, and the smiles

of approving friends seemed to await their approaching union.

In the Orkneys it was customary for the bridegroom to invite the wedding

guests in person; for which purpose, a few days previous to the marriage,

young Graham, accompanied by a friend, took a boat and proceeded to the

island of Hoy in order to request the attendance of a family residing

there; which done, on the following day they joined a party of young men

upon a shooting excursion to Rackwick, a village romantically situated

on the opposite side of the island. They left the house of their friends

on a bright, calm autumnal morning, and began to traverse the wild and

savage glens which intersect the hills, where their progress might be

guessed at by the reports of their guns, which gradually became fainter

and fainter among the mountains, and at last died away altogether in the

distance.

That night and the following day passed, and they did not return to the

house of their friends; but the weather being extremely fine, it was

supposed they had extended their excursion to the opposite coast of

Caithness, or to some of the neighbouring islands, so that their absence

created no alarm whatever.

The same conjectures also quieted the anxieties of the bride, until the

morning previous to that of the marriage, when her alarm could no longer

be suppressed. A boat was manned in all haste, and dispatched to Hoy in

quest of them, but did not return that day nor the succeeding night.

The morning of the wedding day dawned at last bright and beautiful,

but still no intelligence arrived of the bridegroom and his party; and

the hope which lingered to the last, that they would still make their

appearance in time, had prevented the invitations from being postponed,

so that the marriage party began to assemble about midday.

While the friends were all in amazement, and the bride in a most pitiable

state, a boat was seen crossing from Hoy, and hope once more began to

revive; but, when her passengers landed, they turned out to be the

members of the family invited from that island, whose surprise at finding

how matters stood was equal to that of the other friends.

Meantime all parties united in their endeavours to cheer the poor bride,

for which purpose it was agreed that the company should remain, and that

the festivities should go on—an arrangement to which the guests the more

willingly consented, from a lingering hope that the absentees would still

make their appearance, and partly with a view to divert in some measure

the painful suspense of the bride; while she, on the other hand, from

feelings of hospitality, exerted herself, though with a heavy heart, to

make her guests as comfortable as possible, and by the very endeavour to

put on an appearance of tranquillity acquired so much of the reality as

to prevent her from sinking altogether under the weight of her fears.

Meantime the day advanced, the festivities went on, and the glass began

to circulate freely. The absence of the principal actor of the scene

was so far forgotten that at length the music struck up, and dancing

commenced with all the animation which that exercise inspires.

Things were going on in this way when, towards night, and during one of

the pauses of the dance, a loud rap was heard at the door, and a gleam

of hope was seen to lighten every face, when there entered, not the

bridegroom and his party, but a wandering lunatic named Annie Fae, well

known and not a little feared in all that countryside. Her garments were

little else than a collection of fantastic and parti-coloured rags, bound

close around her waist with a girdle of straw, and her head had no other

covering than the dark tangled locks that hung, snake-like, over her wild

and weather-beaten face, from which peered forth her small, deep, sunk

eyes, gleaming with the light of insanity.

Before the surprise and dismay excited by her sudden and unwelcome

appearance had subsided, she addressed the company in the following wild

and incoherent manner,—

“Hech, sirs, but here’s a merry meeting indeed. Plenty o’ gude meat and

drink here, and nae expense spared! Aweel, it’s no a’ lost neither; this

blithe bridal will mak’ a braw burial, and the same feast will do for

baith. But I’ll no detain you langer, but jog on upon my journey; only I

wad juist hint that, for decency sake, ye suld stop that fine fiddling

and dancing.”

Having thus spoken, she made a low curtsy, and hurried out of the house,

leaving the company in that state of painful excitement which, in such

circumstances, even the ravings of a poor deranged wanderer could not

fail to produce.

In this state we too may leave them for the present, and proceed with the

party who had set off on the preceding day in search of the bridegroom

and his friends. The latter were traced to Rackwick; but there no

intelligence could be gained, except that some days previous a boat,

having on board several sportsmen, had been seen putting off from the

shore, and sailing away in the direction of Sule Skerry.

The weather continuing fine, the searching party hired a large boat,

and proceeded to that remote and solitary rock, upon which, as they

neared it, they could discover nothing, except swarms of seals, which

immediately began to flounder towards the water’s edge. A large flock

of sea-fowl arose from the centre of the rock with a deafening scream;

and upon approaching the spot, they beheld, with dumb amazement and

horror, the dead bodies of the party of whom they had come in search,

but so mangled and disfigured by the sea-fowl that they could barely be

recognized.

It appeared that these unfortunates upon landing had forgotten their guns

in the boat, which had slipped from her fastenings, and left them upon

the rock, where they had at last perished of cold and hunger.

Fancy can but feebly conceive, and still less can words describe, the

feelings with which the lost men must have beheld their bark drifting

away over the face of the waters, and found themselves abandoned in the

vast solitude of the ocean.

With what agony must they have gazed upon the distant sails, gliding over

the deep, but keeping far aloof from the rock of desolation. How must

their horrors have been aggravated by the far-off view of their native

hills, lifting their lonely peaks above the wave, and awakening the

dreadful consciousness that they were still within the grasp of humanity,

and yet no arm was stretched forth to save them; while the sun was riding

high in the heavens, and the sea basking in his beams below, and Nature

looking with reckless smiles upon their dying agonies!

As soon as the stupor of horror and amazement had subsided, the party

placed the dead bodies in their boat, and, crowding all sail, stood for

the Orkneys. They landed at night upon the beach, immediately below the

house where the wedding guests were assembled; and there, while debating

in what manner to proceed, they were overheard by the insane wanderer,

the result of whose visit has already been recorded.

She had scarcely left the house, when a low sound of voices was heard

approaching. An exclamation of joy broke from the bride. She rushed out

of the house with outstretched arms to embrace her lover, and the next

moment, with a fearful shriek, fell upon his corpse! With that shriek

reason and memory passed away for ever. She was carried back delirious,

and died towards morning. The bridal was changed into a burial, and Helen

Waters and her lover slept in the same grave!

JOHN MALCOLM. (_Adapted._)

(Native of Firth, Orkney; 1795-1845.)

A LEGEND OF BORAY ISLAND.[1]

In the far-off Northern Islands,

Where the wild waves ever flow,

I have heard a wondrous legend

Of the days of long ago.

There, amid the circling waters,

Boray Isle lies all alone,

Silent ever, save at nightfall

On the eve of good St. John.[2]

Those who in the faith of Odin

’Neath the waves have sunk for aye,

Are as sea-beasts doomed to wander

Till the dawn of Judgment Day.

Once a year on Boray Island

They revisit scenes of earth,

And, their ancient forms resuming,

Hold their wild unhallowed mirth.

On the shore their sealskins leaving,

They in revels pass the time,

Till the midnight hour resoundeth

From St. Magnus’ distant chime.

At the solemn knell the dancers

In wild haste their guise regain,

And as seals once more appearing

Plunge below the waves again.

Long ago a Northern fisher

In a storm was left alone,

And to Boray Isle was driven

On the eve of good St. John.

There saw the ghostly revels—

Music wild fell on his ear;

And he snatched a cast-off sealskin,

And he hid in mortal fear.

All the evening long he watched them,

Till he heard St. Magnus’ chime—

Twelve deep tones proclaimed the hour

When was o’er the fated time.

At the solemn knell the dancers

In wild haste their guise regain—

All save one; a fair sea-maiden,

Seeking for her robe in vain.

All the others plunged and left her,

And no more could Eric bide,

But his friendly shelter leaving,

Hurried to the maiden’s side.

Flung his fisher mantle round her;

With the Cross he signed her o’er;

And with loving words addressed her,

Bidding her to fear no more.

“Fairest one! no longer fated

As a wild sea-beast to roam,

Come and be my bride, my treasure,

Mistress of my hearth and home.

“Thou shalt be a christened woman

By the help of good St. John,

And at blessed Magnus’ altar

Holy Church shall make us one.”

So he spake, and so he won her,

And he took her to his home;

‘Margaret’ was the name they gave her,

‘Pearl’ cast up from Ocean’s foam.

Three bright years they dwelt together,

Love and joy around her grew;

Every day he blessed the tempest

That his bark on Boray threw.

But when spring three times had circled,

Margaret’s cheek was thin and white;

Day by day her strength departed,

And she faded in his sight.

Then she spoke, and thus she bade him:

“Death’s cold touch is on my heart,

But in peace from this dear homestead

Soul and body cannot part

“Till I know my fate for certain—

If the holy water shed

On my christened brow will save me

From the doom of Odin’s dead.

“Row me in your skiff, my husband,

On the eve of good St. John;

Take me back to Boray Island,

Lay me on the sands adown.

“Clasping fast the Cross of Jesus,

I must meet the dead alone;

If they still have power o’er me,

Ere day breaks I shall be gone.

“All alone you needs must leave me;

Pass in fast and prayer the time;

And return when o’er the waters

Peals St. Magnus’ midnight chime.

“And if Cross and Chrism guard me

From the sway of spirits foul,

Then, my husband, know for certain

Christ will save my ransomed soul.”

All her bidding he accomplished,

Though his heart was sad and sore:

On the fated eve he took her,

Laid her down on Boray shore;

Went where he no more could see her,

To the islet’s farthest bound.

Soon he heard the ghostly dancers

With wild cries his wife surround.

All the evening long they tried her,

Tempting her to turn again,

With weird strains of love or threatening,

To her life below the main.

Sadly Eric watched and waited,

Passed in fast and prayer the time,

Till at last, o’er rippling water,

Pealed St. Magnus’ midnight chime.

Then he rose, and hastened to her;

Found her on the lonely sands,

Lying with the Cross of Jesus

Claspèd in her folded hands.

To the Islands of the Blessed

Margaret’s ransomed soul had fled,

And a smile of victory lingered

On her lips, though cold and dead.

ALICE L. DUNDAS

(The Honourable Mrs. John Dundas).

[1] Boray Island, or Holm of Boray, off Millburn Bay in Gairsay.

[2] Midsummer Eve.

[Illustration]

SONGS OF THE GODS.

The Challenge of Thor.

I am the God Thor,

I am the War God,

I am the Thunderer!

Here in my Northland,

My fastness and fortress,

Reign I for ever!

Here amid icebergs

Rule I the nations.

This is my hammer,

Miölner the mighty;

Giants and sorcerers

Cannot withstand it!

These are the gauntlets

Wherewith I wield it

And hurl it afar off.

This is my girdle;

Whenever I brace it

Strength is redoubled!

The light thou beholdest

Stream through the heavens

In flashes of crimson

Is but my red beard

Blown by the night-wind,

Affrighting the nations!

Jove is my brother;

Mine eyes are the lightning;

The wheels of my chariot

Roll in the thunder,

The blows of my hammer

Ring in the earthquake!

Force rules the world still,

Has ruled it, shall rule it;

Meekness is weakness,

Strength is triumphant,

Over the whole earth

Still is it Thor’s Day!

Thou art a God too.

O Galilean!

And thus single-handed

Unto the combat,

Gauntlet or Gospel,

Here I defy Thee!

LONGFELLOW.

Tegner’s Drapa.[3]

I heard a voice that cried,

“Balder the Beautiful

Is dead, is dead!”

And through the misty air

Passed like the mournful cry

Of sunward sailing cranes.

I saw the pallid corpse

Of the dead sun

Borne through the Northern sky.

Blasts from Niffelheim

Lifted the sheeted mists

Around him as he passed.

And the voice for ever cried,

“Balder the Beautiful

Is dead, is dead!”

And died away

Through the dreary night,

In accents of despair.

Balder the Beautiful,

God of the summer sun,

Fairest of all the Gods!

Light from his forehead beamed,

Runes were upon his tongue,

As on the warrior’s sword.

All things in earth and air

Bound were by magic spell

Never to do him harm;

Even the plants and stones—

All save the mistletoe,

The sacred mistletoe!

Hœder, the blind old God,

Whose feet are shod with silence,

Pierced through that gentle breast

With his sharp spear, by fraud

Made of the mistletoe,

The accursed mistletoe!

They laid him in his ship,

With horse and harness,

As on a funeral pyre.

Odin placed

A ring upon his finger,

And whispered in his ear.

They launched the burning ship!

It floated far away

Over the misty sea,

Till like the sun it seemed,

Sinking beneath the waves.

Balder returned no more!

So perish the old Gods!

But out of the sea of Time

Rises a new land of song,

Fairer than the old.

Over its meadows green

Walk the young bards and sing.

Build it again,

O ye bards,

Fairer than before!

Ye fathers of the new race,

Feed upon morning dew,

Sing the new Song of Love!

The law of force is dead!

The law of love prevails!

Thor, the Thunderer,

Shall rule the earth no more,

No more, with threats,

Challenge the meek Christ.

Sing no more,

O ye bards of the North,

Of Vikings and of Jarls!

Of the days of Eld

Preserve the freedom only,

Not the deeds of blood.

LONGFELLOW.

[3] The Song of Tegner, a Swedish poet.

THE SONG OF HAROLD HARFAGER.

The sun is rising dimly red,

The wind is wailing low and dread;

From his cliff the eagle sallies,

Leaves the wolf his darksome valleys;

In the mist the ravens hover,

Peep the wild-dogs from the cover—

Screaming, croaking, baying, yelling,

Each in his wild accents telling,

“Soon we feast on dead and dying,

Fair-haired Harold’s flag is flying.”

Many a crest in air is streaming,

Many a helmet darkly gleaming,

Many an arm the axe uprears,

Doomed to hew the wood of spears.

All along the crowded ranks,

Horses neigh and armour clanks,

Chiefs are shouting, clarions ringing,

Louder still the bard is singing,

“Gather, footmen—gather, horsemen,

To the field, ye valiant Norsemen!

“Halt ye not for food or slumber,

View not vantage, count not number;

Jolly reapers, forward still;

Grow the crop on vale or hill,

Thick or scattered, stiff or lithe,

It shall down before the scythe.

Forward with your sickles bright,

Reap the harvest of the fight—

Onward, footmen—onward, horsemen,

To the charge, ye gallant Norsemen!

“Fatal choosers of the slaughter,

O’er you hovers Odin’s daughter;

Hear the choice she spreads before ye—

Victory, and wealth, and glory;

Or old Valhalla’s roaring Hail,

Her ever-circling mead and ale,

Where for eternity unite

The joys of wassail and of fight.

Headlong forward, foot and horsemen,

Charge and fight, and die like Norsemen!”

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

[Illustration: _A woodland path, Binscarth._]

KING HACON’S LAST BATTLE.

All was over; day was ending

As the foemen turned and fled.

Gloomy red

Glowed the angry sun descending;

While round Hacon’s dying bed

Tears and songs of triumph blending

Told how fast the conqueror bled.

“Raise me,” said the king. We raised him—

Not to ease his desperate pain;

That were vain!

“Strong our foe was—but we faced him:

Show me that red field again.”

Then with reverent hands we placed him

High above the battle plain.

Sudden on our startled hearing

Came the low-breathed, stern command,—

“Lo! ye stand?

Linger not—the night is nearing;

Bear me downwards to the strand,

Where my ships are idly steering

Off and on, in sight of land.”

Every whispered word obeying,

Swift we bore him down the steep,

O’er the deep,

Up the tall ship’s side, low swaying

To the storm-wind’s powerful sweep,

And his dead companions laying

Round him—we had time to weep.

But the king said, “Peace! bring hither

Spoils and weapons, battle-strown—

Make no moan;

Leave me and my dead together;

Light my torch, and then—begone.”

But we murmured, each to other,

“Can we leave him thus alone?”

Angrily the king replieth;

Flashed the awful eye again

With disdain:

“Call him not _alone_ who lieth

Low among such noble slain;

Call him not _alone_ who dieth

Side by side with gallant men.”

Slowly, sadly we departed;

Reached again that desolate shore,

Never more

Trod by him, the brave, true-hearted,

Dying in that dark ship’s core!

Sadder keel from land ne’er parted,

Nobler freight none ever bore!

There we lingered, seaward gazing,

Watching o’er that living tomb,

Through the gloom—

Gloom which awful light is chasing—

Blood-red flames the surge illume!

Lo! King Hacon’s ship is blazing;

’Tis the hero’s self-sought doom.

Right before the wild wind driving,

Madly plunging—stung by fire—

No help nigh her—

Lo! the ship has ceased her striving!

Mount the red flames higher, higher,

Till, on ocean’s verge arriving,

Sudden sinks the Viking’s pyre—

Hacon’s gone!

LORD DUFFERIN.

THE DEATH OF HACO.

The summer is gone, Haco, Haco;

The yellow year is fled;

And the winter is come, Haco,

That numbers thee with the dead!

When the year was young, Haco, Haco,

And the skies were blue and bright,

Thou didst sweep the seas, Haco,

Like a bird with wings of might.

With thine oaken galley, proudly,

And thy gilded dragon-prow,

O’er the bounding billows, Haco,

Like a sea-god thou didst go.

With thy barons gaily, gaily,

All in proof of burnished mail,

In the voes of Orkney, Haco,

Thou didst spread thy prideful sail;

And the sturdy men of Caithness,

And the land of the Mackay,

And the men of Stony Parf, Haco,

Knew that Norway’s king was nigh.

And the men of utmost Lewis, Haco,

And Skye, with winding kyles,

And Macdougall’s country, Haco,

Knew the monarch of the isles.

And the granite peaks of Arran,

And the rocks that fence the Clyde,

Saw thy daring Norsemen, Haco,

Ramping o’er the Scottish tide.

But scaith befell thee, Haco, Haco!

Thou wert faithful, thou wert brave;

But not truth might shield thee, Haco,

From a false and shuffling knave.

The crafty King of Scots, Haco,

Who might not bar thy way,

Beguiled thee, honest Haco,

With lies that bred delay.

And hasty winter, Haco, Haco,

Came and tripped the summer’s heels,

And rent the sails of Haco

And swamped his conquering keels.

Woe is me for Haco, Haco!

On Lorn and Mull and Skye

The hundred ships of Haco

In a thousand fragments lie!

And thine oaken galley, Haco,

That sailed with kingly pride,

Came shorn and shattered, Haco,

Through the foaming Pentland tide.

And thy heart sunk, Haco, Haco,

And thou felt that thou must die,

When the bay of Kirkwall, Haco,

Thou beheld with drooping eye.

And they led thee, Haco, Haco,

To the bishop’s lordly hall,

Where thy woe-struck barons, Haco,

Stood to see the mighty fall.

And the purple churchmen, Haco,

Stood to hold thy royal head,

And good words of hope to Haco

From the Holy Book they read.

Then out spake the dying Haco,

“Dear are God’s dear words to me,

But read the book to Haco

Of the kings that ruled the sea.”

Then they read to dying Haco

From the ancient saga hoar,

Of Holden and of Harold,

When his fathers worshipped Thor,

And they shrove the dying Haco,

And they prayed his bed beside;

And with holy unction Haco

Drooped his kingly head and died.

And in parade of death, Haco,

They stretched thee on thy bed,

With a purple vest for Haco,

And a garland on his head.

And around thee, Haco, Haco,

Were tapers burning bright,

And masses were sung for Haco

By day and eke by night.

And they bore thee, Haco, Haco,

To holy Magnus’ shrine,

And beside his sainted bones, Haco,

They chastely coffined thine.

And above thee, Haco, Haco,

To deck thy dreamless bed,

All crisp with gold for Haco,

A purple pall they spread.

And around thee, Haco, Haco,

Where the iron sleep thou slept,

Through the long, dark winter, Haco,

A solemn watch they kept.

And at early burst of springtime,

When the birds sang out with glee,

They took the body of Haco

In a ship across the sea—

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!

JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

(_From “Lays of the Highlands and Islands.” By permission

of the Walter Scott Publishing Company._)

ORKNEY.

The parting beam of autumn smiles

A farewell o’er these lonely isles;

Capped with its fire, the mountains soar

Like lighted beacons on the shore,

While far beneath, in depth profound,

The tides roll through each darksome sound—

Those passes where the troubled sea

Hurries with roar and revelry;

Where waves dash on in headlong haste,

By a wide world of waters prest.

Here ruined hall and nodding tower

Hint darkly at departed power,

Their domeless walls, time-worn and gray,

Give dimly back the evening ray,

Like gleams from days long past away.

Saint Magnus! pile of ages fled,

Thou temple of the quick and dead!

While they who raised thy form sublime

Have faded from the things of time;

While hands that reared, and heads that planned,

Have passed into the silent land,

Still hath thy mighty fabric stood

’Mid sweeping blast and sheeted flood.

Above thy tower and turrets tall

The thunder-cloud hath spread its pall, ...

And muttered o’er thine airy height

Its bursting accents to the night:

Though oft the wild and wintry storm

Hath reeled around thy towering form,

The mighty pile still proudly rears

Its head above the wreck of years.

As through thy pillared aisles I tread,

Where rest the gone forgotten dead,

Each step a mournful echo calls

To wander through the dreary walls;

The sullen sounds they backward throw,

Which falter into whispers low.

Each tombstone’s frail and crumbling frame

Preserves not e’en an airy name;

The lines by Friendship’s fingers traced,

Now touched by Time’s, are half effaced;

The few faint letters lingering still

Are all the dead man’s chronicle.

How often have the guests who ranged

Thy sacred labyrinths been changed!

Of crowds, who sang their anthems here,

How still each tongue—how deaf each ear!...

But thou like them must pass away

Beneath the hand of pale decay;

Even now thy towering turrets feel

The weight of ages o’er them steal;

Thy summit in its airy waste

Rocks to the rude and rushing blast;

When years that wander o’er thee call

Thy time-struck fabric to its fall,

Thy mouldering columns lone and gray

Shall shelter then the bird of prey;

Each worshipless recess shall be

Place for their frightful revelry;

The raven’s hoarse and funeral note

Shall o’er sepulchral ruins float....

Still doth the ruined palace stand,

A crumbling relic in the land—Tenantless

fabric, huge and high,

And proud in ruined majesty;

The verdant ivy robes thy wall,

Weeds are the dwellers in thy hall,

And in the wind the tufted grass

Waves o’er thy dim and mouldering mass,

And freshly each returning spring

Blooms o’er thy mortal withering.

On darkening piles, and waning wrecks,

A gay green garment oft is spread;

For ruin, as in mockery, decks

The faded victims she hath made.

With time and tempest thou art bent,

A drear, neglected monument,

Lorn as some frail and aged one

Who lives when all his friends are gone!—

Where is thy voice of music?—where

The strains that hushed the midnight air,

When Beauty woke her witching song,

And spellbound held the festive throng?—

A narrow and a nameless grave

Hath closed upon the fair and brave,

And all around is deadly still,

Save when, from some high pinnacle,

The raven’s croak, or owlet’s wail,

Blends with the sighing of the gale....

The hoary rocks, of giant size,

That o’er the land in circles rise,

Of which tradition may not tell,

Fit circles for the wizard’s spell,

Seen far amidst the scowling storm,

Seem each a tall and phantom form,

As hurrying vapours o’er them flee,

Frowning in grim society,

While like a dread voice from the past

Around them mourns the autumnal blast....

Yet not the works of man alone,

Though hallowed by long ages gone,

Charm us away in musing mood;

Bear witness each grim solitude,

’Mid Hoy’s high shadowy mountain walls

Where mournfully the twilight falls:

There bosomed in a deep recess

Sleeps a dim vale of loneliness,

The circling hills, all bleak and wild,

Are o’er its slumbers darkly piled,

Save on one side, where far below

The everlasting waters flow,

And round the precipices vast

Dance to the music of the blast....

There rocks of ages sternly throw

Their shadows o’er a world below,

And fierce and fast each dark-brown flood

Careering comes in maddening mood:

O’er the sheer cliffs the waters flash,

And down in whitest columns dash,

Till, far away, we scarce can hear

Their dying falls and murmurs drear,

As, bursting o’er the dizzy verge,

They melt into the boiling surge.

Here, when, perchance, the voice of men

Is heard within the fairy glen,

Deep muttering echoes start around,

And rocks of gloom fling back the sound,

While from their fragments, rent and riven,

A thousand airy dwellers driven,

Send forth a wild and dreary scream.

Like such as breaks a fearful dream

When Conscience to the sleeper’s gaze

Holds up the view of other days....

When, by Night’s mantle hooded o’er,

The heaving hills are seen no more,

Oft blended with the torrent’s dash

Are heard the thunder’s startling crash,

And burst of billows on the shore,

Like cannon’s deep and distant roar,

By echoes answered loud and fast,

That gallop on the midnight blast,

As if the Spirit of the vale

Heard in his cave the stormy wail,

And to the tempest rolling by

Shrieked loud his frightful mockery....

Where cairns of slumbering chiefs are piled,

And frown above the waters wild,

Rear their hoar heads, forlorn and dim,

Upon the ocean’s lonely brim,

There the fierce storm and maddening surge

Howl loud and long the warrior’s dirge,

And blended there together rave

Through many a deep and dreary cave,

And waken from their sullen lair

Sea-monsters, darkly slumbering there.

Seen from those death-towers of the flood,

The ocean’s mighty solitude

Widens through boundless space around,

Vast, melancholy, lone, profound;

So vast that thought with weary wing

Droops o’er its distant wandering,

And, left behind, again returns

To muse upon the mouldering urns....

As the rude brush of evening’s wind

Leaves not a lingering trace behind

Of landscapes living in the stream,

Like the dim scenery of a dream

Called up by Fancy’s wizard wand,

When Sense is sealed by Slumber’s hand;

So Time’s drear blast hath swept along

Alike from record and from song

Their very names, who now lie hid

Beneath each dusky pyramid;

And all that hint of them are graves

Where the green flag of ruin waves,

Or crumbling remnant of the past

That ivy shelters from the blast,

And clings to still when others flee,

Like true love in adversity.

On Noltland’s solitary pile

The last blush of the dying day

Plays like a melancholy smile

And hectic glow on pale decay ...

The moss of years is on the wall,

And fitfully the night-winds start

Through Bothwell’s roofless ruined hall,

Like sobs of sorrow from the heart;

Upon each floor of cold, damp sod

The clustering weeds like hearse-plumes nod;

Through chambers desolate and green

Hoots the gray owl at evening’s close.

Meant for far other guests, I ween—

Where wave-worn Beauty might repose,

And find that bliss in Love’s caress

Which hallows scenes of loneliness.

See Hoy’s Old Man, whose summit bare

Pierces the dark-blue fields of air,

Based in the sea, his fearful form

Glooms like the spirit of the storm,

An ocean Babel, rent and worn

By time and tide—all wild and lorn—

A giant that hath warred with heaven,

Whose ruined scalp seems thunder-riven,

Whose form the misty spray doth shroud,

Whose head the dark and hovering cloud,

Around his dread and lowering mass,

In sailing swarms the sea-fowl pass,

But when the night-cloud o’er the sea

Hangs like a sable canopy,

And when the flying storm doth scourge

Around his base the rushing surge,

Swift to his airy clefts they soar,

And sleep amidst the tempest’s roar,

Or with its howling round his peak

Mingle their drear and dreamy shriek.

The dying day has had its rest

Upon the mountain’s lofty crest;

Now, o’er the ocean it has fled,

And to the past is gathered;

From stunted shrubs of foliage bared

The farewell melodies are heard;

The twilight spreads a duskier veil

Upon the deep and lonely dale,

And, moaning to the evening star,

The mountain stream is heard afar.

The twilight fades and night again

Claims from our time her portioned reign;

Earth sets, and leaves us to admire

Yon vaulted canopy of fire,

Those burning glories of the sky,

Those “sparks of immortality,”

Which shed from high their living light,

And blaze through the blue depths of night....

At such an hour, should music stray

Soft from some isle, far, far away,

It seems to charm to silent sleep

The murmurs of the mighty deep;

The torrent, as it speeds along,

Stills its dark waters to the song,

And the full bosom feels relief,

Soothed by the mystic “joy of grief;”

Upon the heart-chords stealing slow,

It hallows every cherished woe,

And wakes sensations in the mind,

Wild, beautiful, and undefined,

As tones that harp-strings give the wind.

Oh! at such soul-inspiring strain

The wondrous links of memory’s chain,

Though scattered far, unite again,

And Time and Distance strive in vain.

Again Youth’s fairy visions pass

In morning glow o’er Memory’s glass,

At every magic melting fall

They come like echoes to their call,

And with the dreams of vanished years

Steal forth again our smiles and tears.

JOHN MALCOLM.

SCENES FROM “THE BUCCANEER.”

Night.

Night walked in beauty o’er the peaceful sea,

Whose gentle waters spake tranquillity;

With dreamy lull the rolling billow broke

In hollow murmurs on the distant rock;

The sea-bird wailed along the airy steep;

The creak of distant oar was on the deep.

So still the scene, the boatman’s voice was heard;

The listening ear could almost catch each word;

From isles remote the house-dog’s fitful bay

Came floating o’er the waters far away;

And homeward wending o’er the silent hill,

The lonely shepherd’s song and whistle shrill;

The lulling murmur of the mountain flood,

That sung its night-hymn to the solitude;

The curlew’s wild and desolate farewell,

As slow she sailed adown the darksome dell;

The heathcock whirring o’er the heathy vale;

The mateless plover’s far-forsaken wail;

The rush of tides that round the islands ran,

And danced like maniacs in the moonlight wan,—

All formed a scene so wild, and yet so fair,

As might have wooed the heart from dreams of care,

If aught had charms to soothe, or balm to heal,

The pangs that guilt is ever doomed to feel....

Morning.

Day dawns, and from the main the mist is furled,

The night-cloak of a solitary world;

And slow emerging from the fleecy cloud

The mountains soar like giants from the shroud.

High o’er the rest, and towering to the storm,

Glooms o’er the ocean Hoy’s majestic form;

From his lone head, as roll the clouds away,

Behold Creation bursting into day,

As first it broke from night and nothingness,

When the Great Spirit brooded o’er the abyss.

How calm and clear the boundless waters seem,

As if awakening from a heavenly dream;

The little isles within their bosom lie,

Like dwellers in a bright infinity;

The crag terrific beetling o’er the west

Beholds the heaven reflected in their breast.

The dark-brown hills embrace each silent bay

That loves amid their solitude to stray;

And far beneath, with low sepulchral sound,

Moans the dark torrent through the dell profound;

And from the thunder-throne, the mountain cairn,

Shrieks to the waste the solitary erne....

Scenes of my song, of earliest smiles and tears,

Ye wake the memories of departed years!

The distant murmur of your mountain streams

Steals o’er my spirit with departed dreams,

With many a tale and recollected lay,

Which, like the twilight of an autumn day,

Faint on your shores, of wonderful and wild,

Meet for the musing moods of Fancy’s child.

There have I roamed o’er many a soaring steep

When the last day-gleam died along the deep,

And o’er the still and solitary land,

The distant music of the reaper band

Came soft and mournful on the pensive soul,

As mermaid’s siren song o’er ocean’s roll.

There have I gazed upon the pathless seas,

As on the gates of two eternities—

Far east, where future days shall gild the wave,

And west, where all the past hath found a grave.

JOHN MALCOLM.

TO ORKNEY.

Land of the whirlpool, torrent, foam,

Where oceans meet in maddening shock;

The beetling cliff, the shelving holm,

The dark, insidious rock;

Land of the bleak, the treeless moor,

The sterile mountain, seared and riven;

The shapeless cairn, the ruined tower,

Scathed by the bolts of heaven;

The yawning gulf, the treacherous sand;—

I love thee still, my native land!

Land of the dark, the Runic rhyme,

The mystic ring, the cavern hoar,

The Scandinavian seer, sublime

In legendary lore;

Land of a thousand sea-kings’ graves—

Those tameless spirits of the past,

Fierce as their subject Arctic waves,

Or hyperborean blast;

Though polar billows round thee foam,

I love thee!—thou wert once my home.

With glowing heart and island lyre,

Ah! would some native bard arise

To sing, with all a poet’s fire,

Thy stern sublimities—

The roaring flood, the rushing stream,

The promontory wild and bare,

The pyramid where sea-birds scream

Aloft in middle air,

The Druid temple on the heath,

Old even beyond tradition’s breath.

Though I have roamed through verdant glades,

In cloudless climes, ’neath azure skies;

Or plucked from beauteous Orient meads

Flowers of celestial dyes;

Though I have laved in limpid streams

That murmur over golden sands,

Or basked amid the fulgent beams

That flame o’er fairer lands;

Or stretched me in the sparry grot,—

My country! thou wert ne’er forgot.

DAVID VEDDER.

(Native of Deerness; 1790-1854.)

THE TEMPLE OF NATURE.

Talk not of temples; there is _one_,

Built without hands, to mankind given.

Its lamps are the meridian sun

And all the stars of heaven;

Its walls are the cerulean sky;

Its floor the earth so green and fair;

The dome is vast immensity,—

All nature worships there!

The Alps, arrayed in stainless snow,

The Andean ranges yet untrod,

At sunrise and at sunset glow

Like altar-fires to God!

A thousand fierce volcanoes blaze,

As if with hallowed victims rare;

And thunder lifts its voice in praise,—

All nature worships there!

The ocean heaves resistlessly,

And pours his glittering treasures forth;

His waves, the priesthood of the sea,

Kneel on the shell-gemmed earth,

And there emit a hollow sound,

As if they murmured praise and prayer;

On every side ’tis hallowed ground,—

All nature worships there!

The grateful earth her odours yield

In homage, Mighty One, to Thee,

From herbs and flowers in every field,

From fruit on every tree;

The balmy dew, at morn and even,

Seems like the penitential tear,

Shed only in the sight of Heaven,—

All nature worships there!

The cedar and the mountain pine,

The willow on the fountain’s brim,

The tulip and the eglantine,

In reverence bend to Him;

The song-birds pour their sweetest lays

From tower, and tree, and middle air;

The rushing river murmurs praise,—

All nature worships there!

Then talk not of a fane, save _one_,

Built without hands, to mankind given.

Its lamps are the meridian sun

And all the stars of heaven;

Its walls are the cerulean sky;

Its floor the earth so green and fair;

The dome is vast immensity,—

All nature worships there!

DAVID VEDDER.

APPENDIX I.

CHRONOLOGY OF ORCADIAN HISTORY TO THE END OF THE EARLDOM, WITH RELATED

CONTEMPORARY EVENTS.

Certain historians assign earlier dates than those given below to the

events before 933. The chronology adopted here is that which harmonizes

best with the dates of events in other lands during that period.

Approximate dates are marked “c” (circa); events not directly connected

with the Earldom are in square brackets, and their dates in lighter type.

A.D.

=78= (c.) Agricola’s visit to Orkney.

563. [Columba in Scotland.]

=580= (c.) Cormac’s missionary journey to Orkney.

597. [Augustine in England.]

787. [First recorded appearance of Vikings in England.]

800 (c.) [First period of Norse colonization begins.]

841. [Rouen taken by the Norsemen.]

852. [Norse kingdom established in Dublin.]

862. [Rurik founds the Norse line in Russia.]

871. [Alfred the Great King of England.]

885. [Siege of Paris by the Norsemen.]

=900.= Battle of Harfursfirth—Second period of Norse colonization

begins.

— [Iceland colonized by Norsemen.]

=901= (c.) Harald Fairhair in Orkney—Earldom established.

— Sigurd I. earl.

=905= (c.) Battle with Maelbrigda of Ross—Sigurd’s death.

— Guttorm, Sigurd’s son, earl.

=907= (c.) Hallad, son of Rognvald, Earl of Moeri, earl.

=910.= Einar I. (Torf Einar), Rognvald’s son, earl.

912. [Rolf or Rollo, Rognvald’s son, Duke of Normandy.]

=933.= Arnkell, Erlend I., and Thorfinn I., Einar’s sons,

joint-earls.

950. [King Eric (Bloody axe) expelled from Norway.]

=954.= Eric and Earls Arnkell and Erlend fall at battle of

Stainsmoor.

=963.= Arnfinn, Havard, Ljot, and Hlodve, Thorfinn’s sons,

joint-earls.

=980.= Sigurd II. (the Stout), Hlodve’s son, earl.

980. [Discovery of Greenland by the Norsemen.]

986. [Discovery of America (Vinland) by the Norsemen.]

=995.= Conversion of Sigurd to Christianity by Olaf Tryggvason.

998. [Olaf Tryggvason, King of Norway.]

=1014.= Battle of Clontarf—Death of Earl Sigurd.

— Sumarlid, Einar II., Brusi, and (later) Thorfinn II.,

Sigurd’s sons, joint-earls.

1015. [Olaf the Saint King of Norway.]

=1015.= Death of Earl Sumarlid.

1017. [Knut (Canute) King of England.]

=1020.= Murder of Einar II.

1027. [Norse kingdom established in Southern Italy.]

1030. [Battle of Sticklestad—Death of St. Olaf.]

=1031.= Death of Earl Brusi—Thorfinn II. sole earl.

— Rognvald, Brusi’s son, claims a share of the earldom.

=1045.= Battle in the Pentland Firth between Rognvald and Thorfinn.

=1046.= Murder of Rognvald in Papa Stronsay.

1056. [Malcolm Canmore King of Scotland.]

=1057.= Christ’s Kirk in Birsay founded.

=1064.= Death of Thorfinn; his sons Paul I. and Erlend II.

joint-earls.

=1066.= Harald Hardradi visits Orkney.

— Harold, Godwin’s son, King of England.

— Battle of Stamford Bridge.

— Invasion of Duke William of Normandy—Battle of Hastings.

1087. [Moorish Empire established in Spain.]

1096. [First Crusade.]

=1098.= Magnus (Barefoot), King of Norway, sends the Orkney earls

to Norway, and makes his son Sigurd “King” of Orkney.

1103. [Death of Magnus—Sigurd King of Norway.]

=1103.= Hakon, Paul’s son, and Magnus, Erlend’s son, joint-earls.

=1115.= Murder of Earl Magnus (St. Magnus) in Egilsay.

=1122.= Death of Earl Hakon; his sons Harald I. and Paul II.

joint-earls.

=1127.= Death of Harald—Paul sole earl.

=1129.= Rognvald II. (Kali) appointed joint-earl by King Sigurd.

=1135.= Rognvald’s first expedition to claim the earldom.

— St. Magnus Church, Egilsay, founded.

=1136.= Rognvald’s second expedition—Earl Paul kidnapped by Sweyn

Asleifson.

=1137.= St. Magnus Cathedral founded.

=1139.= Harald II. (Maddadson) joint-earl.

=1151.= Crusaders winter in Orkney.

=1152.= Earl Rognvald’s Crusade to Jerusalem.

=1154.= Erlend III. joint-earl.

=1156.= Death of Erlend III.

=1158.= Earl Rognvald killed.

=1171.= Sweyn Asleifson’s last cruise and death at Dublin.

1171. [English invasion of Ireland.]

=1175.= Abbot Laurentius transferred from Orkney (Eynhallow) to

Melrose.

1194. [Battle of Floravoe, near Bergen; defeat of the

“Island-beardies.”]

=1196.= Shetland separated from the Orkney earldom.

=1197.= Harald III. (the Young), grandson of Rognvald, joint-earl.

=1198.= Death of Harald the Young.

=1206.= Death of Earl Harald II. (Maddadson); his sons David and

John joint-earls.

=1214.= Death of Earl David.

1214. [Alexander II. King of Scotland.]

1215. [Magna Charta granted in England.]

=1222.= Burning of Bishop Adam in Caithness.

— Death of Bjarne, the poet-bishop of Orkney.

=1231.= Death of John, the last earl of the Norse line.

=1232.= Magnus II., the first of the Angus line, earl.

— Loss of ship carrying the chief men of the Isles from

Norway.

=1239.= Gilbride I. earl.

? Gilbride II. earl.

1249. [Alexander III. King of Scotland.]

=1256.= Magnus III. earl.

=1263.= King Hakon’s expedition—Battle of Largs—Death of Hakon at

Kirkwall.

=1266.= Treaty of Perth—“Annual of Norway” established.

=1276.= Magnus IV. earl.

=1284.= John II. earl.

1286. [Death of Alexander III. of Scotland—Margaret of Norway

heiress to the crown.]

1292. [Death of Margaret the “Maid of Norway.”]

1306. [Robert Bruce King of Scotland. According to a tradition,

the credibility of which is supported by various lines

of evidence, Bruce passed the winter of 1306-7 in

Orkney, not in the island of Rathlin.]

=1310.= Magnus V. earl.

1312. [Treaty of Perth confirmed at Inverness.]

1314. [Battle of Bannockburn.]

=1325.= Death of Earl Magnus V.; end of the Angus line.

— Malise of Stratherne earl.

=1353.= Erngisl earl.

=1379.= Death of Earl Erngisl; end of the Stratherne line.

— Henry I. (St. Clair) earl—Shetland restored to the earldom.

— Union of Norway, Sweden, and Denmark (Union of Calmar).

=1400.= Henry II. (St. Clair) earl.

1406. [Prince James of Scotland captured by the English when on

his way to France.]

=1420.= Bishop William Tulloch, commissioner in Orkney for the

Crown of Norway.

=1423.= David Menzies of Wemyss commissioner.

=1434.= William St. Clair earl, the last earl under Norse rule.

1453. [Constantinople taken by the Turks.]

=1468.= Orkney and Shetland pledged to the Scottish Crown.

— Marriage of James III. of Scotland to Margaret of Denmark.

=1471.= Lands and revenues of Earl William purchased by the

Scottish Crown.

=1472.= Bishop William Tulloch appointed to collect Crown revenues.

=1485.= Henry St. Clair representative of the Crown.

1492. [First voyage of Columbus.]

1497. [Voyage of Cabot to Labrador.]

=1513.= Battle of Flodden—Death of Henry St. Clair.

1524. [Union of Calmar dissolved.]

=1529.= Battle of Summerdale.

=1540.= James V. of Scotland visits Orkney.

1542. [Mary Queen of Scots born.]

=1565.= Lord Robert Stewart obtains a feu charter of Orkney and

Shetland.

1567. [Mary Queen of Scots deposed—James VI. proclaimed—Flight

of Bothwell to Orkney and Shetland.]

=1568.= The Islands resumed by the Crown of Scotland.

=1581.= Lord Robert Stewart earl.

1588. [The Armada.]

=1592.= Earl Patrick Stewart obtains the Islands.

1603. [Union of the Crowns of Scotland and England.]

=1614.= Execution of Earl Patrick.

APPENDIX II.

NORSE WORDS IN ORKNEY PLACE-NAMES.

The following is a list of the Norse words most commonly found in

place-names in Orkney, with their meaning. The forms in which they now

appear, as names or parts of names, are given in italic, except where the

old form is preserved with little change.

1. LAND FEATURES.

=Ass=, ridge; _-house_.

=Bjarg=, rocky hill; _-berry_, _-ber_.

=Bratt=, steep; _brett-_.

=Brekka=, slope; _-breck_.

=Dal=, valley; _-dale_, _-dall_.

=Fjall=, hill; _-fell_, _-fea_, _-fiold_.

=Gil=, narrow glen; _-gill_.

=Grjot=, gravel; _grut-_.

=Hals=, neck, col; _hass_.

=Hammar=, crag.

=Haug=, mound; _howe_, _hox-_.

=Hlith=, slope; _-lee_.

=Hvāll=, =hōll=, hill; _hol-_, _hool-_.

=Hvamm=, small valley, grassy slope; _quholm_.

=Kamb=, ridge or crest; _kame_.

=Knapp=, hilltop, knob.

_Kuml_, burial mound; _cumla-_.

=Leir=, clay; _ler-_.

=Mel=, sandbank, sandy downs.

=Mor=, pl. mos, moor; _mous-_, _-mo_.

=Myri=, wet meadow; _-mire_.

=Skal=, soft rock, shale; _skel-_.

=Thufa=, mound; _-too_.

=Varthi=, watch-tower; _ward_, _wart_.

=Voll=, valley; _vel-_, _-wall_.

2. FRESH WATER.

=A=, =o=, =or=, burn.

=Brun=, well; _-burn_.

=Fors=, waterfall; _furs-_.

=Kelda=, spring.

=Oss=, burn-mouth; _oyce_.

=Tjörn=, small lake; _-shun_.

=Vatn=, water; _watten_.

3. SHORE FEATURES.

=Bakki=, banks; _-back_.

=Barth=, projecting headland (edge of a hill, beak of a ship, etc.).

=Berg=, mass of rock; _-ber_, _-berry_.

=Bringa=, breast; _bring_.

=Eith=, isthmus; _aith_, _-ay_, _-a_.

=Ey=, island; _-ey_, _-ay_, _-a_.

=Eyrr=, gravel beach; _ayre_.

=Fles=, flat skerry; _flashes_.

=Gnüp=, peak; _noup_.

=Hella=, flat rock; _-hellya_.

=Hellir=, cave; _-hellya_.

=Hōlm=, small island.

=Klett=, low rock; _-clett_.

=Muli=, muzzle, lip; _mout_.

=Nef=, növ, nose; _nevi_.

=Nes=, nose; _-ness_.

=Oddi=, sharp point; _od_.

=Sker=, skerry.

=Stakk=, pillar rock; _stack_.

=Tangl=, tongue; _-taing_.

4. SEA FEATURES.

=Brim=, surf.

=Efja=, backwater, eddy; _evie_.

=Fjörth=, firth; _firth_, _-ford_.

=Gja=, chasm, creek; _geo_.

=Glup=, throat; _gloup_.

=Hafn=, harbour; _ham_, _hamn-_.

=Hōp=, shallow bay.

=Straum=, tide-stream; _strom-_.

=Vag=, narrow bay; _voe_, _-wall_.

=Vath=, wading-place, ford; _waith_.

=Vik=, bay; _-wick_.

5. FARMS AND HOUSES.

=Bolstadr=, dwelling; _-buster_, _-bister_, _-bist_.

=Brū=, bridge; _bro-_.

=Bu=, =bær=, farm; _bu_, _-by_.

=Bygging=, building, from byggja, to settle, to build; _-biggin_.

=Garth=, enclosure, dyke; _-garth_, _-ger_.

=Grind=, gate.

=Hagi=, enclosed pasture; _hack-_.

=Hus=, house.

=Krō=, sheepfold; _-croo_.

=Kvī=, cattle pen; _-quoy_.

=Rett=, sheepfold; _-ret_.

=Sel=, “saeter” hut; _selli-_.

=Setr=, =saetr=, out-pasture; _seatter_, _-setter_, _-ster_.

=Skali=, hall, house; _-skaill_.

=Skipti=, dividing, boundary; _skippi-_.

=Stadr=, homestead; _-ster_, _-sta_.

=Stofa=, room, house; _stove_.

=Thopt=, plot, site of a house; _-toft_, _-taft_.

=Tūn=, enclosure, hedge; _-ton_, _-town_.

6. MISCELLANEOUS.

=Djup=, deep; _deep-_, _jub-_.

=Faer=, sheep; _far-_.

=Flat=, flat; _flot-_.

=Gra=, gray.

=Graenn=, green.

=Ha=, high; _ho-_.

=Helgr=, holy; _hellya_.

=Hest=, horse.

=Hrafn=, raven; _ram-_, _ramn-_.

=Hross=, horse; _russ-_.

=Hund=, dog.

=Hvit=, white; _wheetha-_.

=Ling=, heather.

=Mykill=, great; _muckle_.

=Raud=, red; _ro-_.

=Skalp=, ship; _scap-_.

=Skip=, ship.

=Svart=, black; _swart-_.

APPENDIX III.

LIST OF BIRDS FOUND IN ORKNEY.

Local names are given in brackets. An asterisk (*) indicates that the

bird is not known to breed in the islands. When any bird not in this list

is found, it will usually be worth while to put the fact on record.

*=Auk, Little= (Rotchie).

=Blackbird= (Blackie).

=Bunting, Corn= (Chirlie Buntling).

*=Bunting, Snow= (Snowflake).

=Chaffinch=—_rare_.

=Coot= (Snaith).

=Cormorant= (Palmer, Scarf).

Crow, Hooded (Craa, Hoodie Craa, Grayback).

=Cuckoo=—_rare_.

=Curlew= (Whaup).

*=Diver, Black-throated=—_rare_.

*=Diver, Great Northern= (Immer Goose).

=Diver, Red-throated.=

*=Dotterel=—_rare_.

=Dove, Ring= (Wood-pigeon)—_rare_.

=Dove, Rock.=

=Dove, Stock.=

=Duck, Eider= (Dunter).

*=Duck, Golden-eye=—_rare_.

=Duck, Long-tailed= (Calloo)—_rare_.

*=Duck, Scaup=—_rare_.

=Duck, Sheld= (Sly-goose).

=Duck, Teal.=

=Duck, Tufted.=

=Duck, Wild= (Stock Duck).

=Dunlin= (Plover-page, Plover-pagick).

=Falcon, Peregrine.=

*=Fieldfare.=

=Gannet= or =Solan Goose=.

*=Goose, Bernacle=—_rare_.

*=Goose, Brent.=

*=Goose, Graylag=—_rare_.

=Grebe, Little.=

=Greenfinch= (Green Lintie).

=Grouse, Red= (Muirhen).

=Guillemot, Black= (Tyste).

=Guillemot, Common= (Aak).

=Gull, Black-headed.=

=Gull, Common= (White-maa).

=Gull, Greater Black-backed= (Baakie).

=Gull, Herring= (White-maa).

=Gull, Lesser Black-backed.=

=Hen Harrier= (Goose-haak).

=Heron, Common.=

=Jackdaw= (Jackie, Kae).

=Kestrel= (Moosie Haak).

=Kittiwake= (Kittie, Kittick, Kittiwaako).

=Lapwing= (Teeack, Teewhup).

=Linnet= (Lintie, Lintick).

=Merganser, Red-breasted= (Sawbill, Harl, Rantick).

=Merlin.=

=Moorhen= (Waterhen).

=Owl, Long-eared=—_rare_.

=Owl, Short-eared= (Cattie-face).

=Oyster Catcher= (Skeldro).

=Petrel, Fulmar.=

=Petrel, Stormy= (Sea-swallow).

=Phalarope, Red-necked.=

=Pipit, Meadow= (Teeting).

=Pipit, Rock= (Tang Sparrow, Tang Teeting).

=Plover, Golden.=

=Plover, Ringed= (Sandlark, Sinlack).

=Pochard.=

=Puffin= (Tammie-norrie).

=Quail=—_rare_.

=Rail, Land= (Corncrake).

=Rail, Water=—_rare_.

=Raven= (Corbie).

=Razor-bill= (Cooter-neb).

=Redbreast= (Robin Redbreast).

=Redshank.=

*=Redwing.=

=Rook.=

*=Sanderling=—_rare_.

=Sandpiper, Common.=

*=Scoter, Common.=

*=Scoter, Surf=—_rare_.

*=Scoter, Velvet.=

=Shag= (Scarf).

=Shearwater, Manx= (Lyrie).

=Shoveller=—_rare_.

=Skua, Richardson’s= (Scootie-allan).

=Skylark= (Laverock, Lavro).

*=Smew=—_rare_.

=Snipe= (Snippick, Horse-gowk).

=Sparrow, Hedge.=

=Sparrow, House= (Sprug).

=Starling= (Stirling, Strill).

*=Stint, Little=—_rare_.

=Stonechat=—_rare_.

*=Swan, Hooper=—_rare_.

=Tern, Arctic= (Pickie-terno, Rit-tick).

=Tern, Common= (Pickie-terno, Rit-tick).

=Tern, Sandwich=—_rare_.

=Thrush= (Mavis).

*=Turnstone=—_rare_.

=Twite= (Heather Lintie).

=Wagtail, Pied= (Willie-wagtail).

=Warbler, Sedge=—_rare_.

=Wheatear= (Chackie, Stonechat).

=Whimbrel= (Little Whaup, Summer Whaup)—_rare_.

=Whinchat=—_rare_.

=Widgeon.=

=Woodcock=—_rare_.

=Wren= (Wirenn, Jenny Wren).

=Wren, Gold-crested=—_rare_.

=Yellowhammer= (Yallow Yarling).

APPENDIX IV.

BOOKS FOR FURTHER STUDY.

The subjoined list of books is given as a guide to further study by those

who may wish to extend their knowledge of Orkney in any of the aspects

suggested in this book. It is not in any sense a complete list of works

relating to the Islands, nor does it, on the other hand, confine itself

to such works in subjects where general study is the best foundation for

local research. The books marked * are now out of print, and can only be

obtained from libraries, or bought, when occasion offers, from dealers

in second-hand books. As regards books still current, the list may be

helpful to those who are building up school or parish libraries in the

Islands. The most complete bibliography of Orkney and Shetland is the

=List of Books and Pamphlets relating to Orkney and Shetland=, by James

W. Cursiter, F.S.A.Scot. (Wm. Peace and Son, Kirkwall, 1894.)

Archæology and Early History.

*=Orkneyinga Saga.= Translated by Hjaltalin and Goudie. Edited, with

Notes, by Anderson. (Edinburgh, 1873.) The historical introduction by Dr.

Joseph Anderson is of special value.

=The Orkneyingers’ Saga.= Translated by Sir G. W. Dasent. (London, 1894;

Rolls Edition.) A very fine spirited rendering into English, as may be

seen from the extracts given in the first part of this book.

=The Saga of Hacon, and a fragment of the Saga of Magnus.= Translated by

Sir G. W. Dasent. (London, 1894; Rolls Edition.) This gives the Norse

account of the battle of Largs, and events leading up to it.

The Icelandic text of the two preceding books is published in separate

volumes in the same series.

=The Story of Burnt Njal.= By Sir G. W. Dasent. (Edinburgh, 1861; also a

later and cheaper edition.) This is the finest of the Icelandic sagas.

It deals mainly with life in Iceland, but contains several references

to Orkney under Earl Sigurd the Stout, and the fine description of the

battle of Clontarf quoted in this book.

=The War of the Gaedhil with the Gaill; or, The Invasion of Ireland

by the Danes and other Norsemen.= Irish text, with translation and

introduction by Jas. H. Todd. (London, 1867; Rolls Edition.) This gives

an account from the Irish point of view of the Norse invasions of Ireland

up to and including the battle of Clontarf.

=The Heimskringla; or, Chronicles of the Kings of Norway.= Translated by

Samuel Laing. (3 vols., London, 1844; new edition, edited by Dr. R. B.

Anderson, 4 vols., London, 1889.)

=Heimskringla Saga.= The Saga Library Edition. Translated by Wm. Morris

and Eirikr Magnusson. (4 vols., London, 1893-1905.) The sagas included in

the Heimskringla form a history of the early kings of Norway, and contain

frequent references to Orkney. Snorri Sturlason, the author, ranks among

the greatest of historians.

=Corpus Poeticum Boreale.= By Gudbrand Vigfusson and F. York Powell.

(2 vols., Oxford, 1883.) This is an almost complete collection of old

Norse Eddic and Court poetry, including poems by Torf Einar, Arnor the

Earl’s poet, Earl Rognvald, and Bishop Bjarni. In a valuable introduction

Vigfusson shows that many of the Eddic lays were written in the western

Norse colonies in the British Isles, and some of them presumably in the

Orkney earldom.

=Icelandic Primer.= By Henry Sweet. (Oxford, 1886.)

=Icelandic Prose Reader.= By G. Vigfusson and F. York Powell. (Oxford,

1879.)

=Icelandic-English Dictionary.= By R. Cleasby. Edited by G. Vigfusson,

with appendix by W. W. Skeat. (London, 1874.)

The preceding three books form the best equipment for studying the

language of the Norse period.

=The Dialect and Place-Names of Shetland.= By J. Jakobsen. (Lerwick,

1897.) Many of the place-names explained occur in Orkney.

=The Vikings in Western Christendom=, by C. F. Keary (London, 1891),

gives an interesting account of the early Viking age, from 789 to 888 A.D.

=Saga Time=, by J. Fulford Vicary (London, 1887), gives a popular

description of society from the ninth to the eleventh century.

=Orcades, seu Rerum Orcadensium Historia.= By Thormodus Torfaeus,

Icelandic historian (1697). Translated by Alexander Pope, minister of

Reay. (Wick, 1866.) Only a partial translation.

*=Account of the Danes and Norwegians in England, Scotland, and Ireland.=

By J. J. A. Worsaae; translation. (London, 1852.) A standard work.

=Monumenta Orcadica: the Norsemen in the Orkneys and the Monuments

they have left, with a Survey of the Celtic Pre-Norwegian and

Scottish Post-Norwegian Monuments in the Islands.= By L. Dietrichson.

(Christiania, 1906.) The most recent and most scientific account of

the Norse remains in Orkney, written in Norwegian, but with a very

full summary—almost equivalent to a translation—in English. Of special

interest is the account of the newly-discovered monastery in Eynhallow.

=The Viking Age.= By Paul du Chaillu. (2 vols., London, 1889.) An account

of the manners and customs, as well as the history, of the Viking period;

well illustrated, but not accurate or authoritative.

=The Early Kings of Norway.= By Thomas Carlyle. (London, 1875.) A short

account of the period from 860 to 1397; of no great historical value.

Norse Mythology.

*=Northern Mythology.= By Benjamin Thorpe. (3 vols., London, 1851.) The

best and most complete work on the subject.

=Northern Antiquities.= By P. Mallet; translation. (London, 1770; edition

in Bohn’s Series.)

=The Mythology of the Eddas.= By C. F. Keary. (London, 1882.)

=Norse Mythology: the Religion of our Forefathers.= By R. B. Anderson.

(Chicago, 1875.)

=Asgard and the Gods: a Manual of Norse Mythology.= By Dr. W. Wägner.

(London, 1880.) The best popular book on the subject.

=The Tragedy of the Norse Gods.= By R. J. Pitt.

=Heroes and Hero-Worship.= By Thomas Carlyle. (London, 1841.)

=The Earthly Paradise.= By William Morris. (London, 1868-70.)

=Sigurd the Volsung.= By William Morris. (London, 1877.)

=Epic and Romance.= Essays on Mediæval Literature by W. P. Ker. (London,

1908.) An authoritative and very readable account of the old Icelandic

literary art.

Later History.

*=History of the Orkney Islands.= By the Rev. George Barry. (Edinburgh,

1805; reprinted, with prefatory account of the Islands, Kirkwall, 1867.)

One of the standard works dealing with the history of the Islands.

*=Odal Rights and Feudal Wrongs.= By David Balfour of Balfour.

(Edinburgh, 1860).

*=Oppressions of the Sixteenth Century in the Islands of Orkney and

Zetland.= (Edinburgh, 1859; Abbotsford and Maitland Clubs publications.)

The above two books give an account of Orkney under Scottish rule.

*=Monteith’s Description of the Islands of Orkney and Zetland.=

(Edinburgh, 1711; reprinted 1845.)

*=General View of the Agriculture of the Orkney Islands.= By John

Shirreff. (Edinburgh, 1814.) An exceedingly interesting account of the

state of the Islands in the early nineteenth century.

=Description of the Isles of Orkney.= By the Rev. James Wallace (minister

of Kirkwall). Published by his son. (Edinburgh, 1693; reprinted, with

notes by John Small, M.A., Edinburgh, 1883.)

=The Present State of the Orkney Islands Considered.= By James Fea

(Surgeon). (Edinburgh, 1775; reprinted, Edinburgh, 1884.)

=Orkney and Shetland Old-Lore Series.= A miscellany issued quarterly

by the Viking Club, London; contains numerous articles of historical

interest.

Descriptive.

*=The Orkneys and Shetland.= By John R. Tudor. (London, 1883.) The best

descriptive work on the county; at once popular and systematic.

=Kirkwall in the Orkneys.= By B. H. Hossack. (Kirkwall, 1900.) An

extremely full and detailed descriptive and historical account of the

town of Kirkwall.

*=History of the Orkney Islands=, by the Rev. George Barry (Kirkwall

edition, 1867), contains a well-written description of the Islands.

*=Summers and Winters In the Orkneys.= By Daniel Gorrie. (Kirkwall, N.D.)

A valuable series of sketches of Orcadian scenery and the conditions of

life about the middle of last century.

=Rambles In the Far North.= By R. M. Fergusson. (Paisley, 1884.)

=Our Trip North.= By R. M. Fergusson. (London, 1892.)

=Handbook to the Orkney Islands.= (W. Peace and Son, Kirkwall.) Full of

interest.

=Orkney and Shetland.= By M. J. B. Baddeley, B.A. Thorough Guide Series.

(Thomas Nelson and Sons, London.) The best tourist guide to the Islands.

=Orkney and Shetland Almanac and County Directory= (W. Peace and Son,

Kirkwall; issued annually) contains statistical and other material of

value.

=The North Sea Pilot. Part I.= (London, 1894.) A Government publication

for the use of mariners. Of much value to Orcadians interested in boating

or in navigation.

=Tour through the Islands of Orkney and Shetland.= By the Rev. George

Low, with introduction by Dr. Joseph Anderson. (Kirkwall, 1879.) An

interesting account of the appearance of the Islands at the end of the

eighteenth century.

Geology.

There is no book dealing specifically with the geology of Orkney.

Recourse must be had either to books dealing with the science generally,

or to those dealing with the Islands in which their geology is included.

=The Orkneys and Shetland= (Tudor) contains an account of the geology of

the islands, written by Drs. Peach and Horne, with a useful geological

map.

The most recent and complete geological survey of Orkney is that by

Dr. J. S. Flett, an account of which is contained in two papers in the

=Transactions of the Royal Society of Edinburgh=.

Some of Hugh Miller’s works, such as =The Testimony of the Rocks=, =The

Old Red Sandstone=, =Rambles of a Geologist=, and =Footprints of the

Creator=, contain numerous references to the geology of Orkney.

=Robert Dick=, by Dr. Samuel Smiles, is an interesting account of a

Thurso baker who devoted his life to the study of geology in Caithness,

where the rook formation is the same as that of Orkney.

Among general works in geology suitable for beginners may be mentioned

Huxley’s =Physiography= and Sir Archibald Geikie’s =Outlines of Field

Geology=, his =Class-book of Geology=, and his =Scenery of Scotland=.

Botany.

=The Orkneys and Shetland= (Tudor) contains a list of the rarer British

plants found in Orkney, compiled by W. I. Fortescue.

Volume xviii. of the =Transactions of the Botanical Society of Edinburgh=

contains a complete list of Orkney plants by Prof. J. W. H. Traill.

Another list is in preparation by Mr. Magnus Spence.

=The Marine Algæ of the Orkney Islands=, by G. W. Traill (Edinburgh,

1890), contains a list of the seaweeds of Orkney.

The following are some general works on botany which may be of service

to the beginner:—=Open-air Studies in Botany=, by R. L. Praeger (London,

1897), a study of wild flowers in their homes, with illustrations;

=Flowering Plants, their Structure and Habitat=, by C. L. Laurie,

illustrated (London, 1903); =Nature Studies=, by G. F. Scott-Elliot

(London, 1903); =A Plant Book for Schools=, by O. V. Darbyshire,

illustrated (London, 1908); =Flowers of the Field=, by C. A. Johns

(London, 1894).

=Common Objects of the Seashore=, by the Rev. J. G. Wood (London, 1866),

contains good descriptions and illustrations of the seaweeds.

For identification of plants perhaps the best books are the =British

Flora=, by Bentham and Hooker (London, 1904), and =Illustrations to

Bentham and Hooker’s British Flora=, by Fitch and Smith (London, 1905).

For mosses, the best book is Dixon and Jameson’s =Student’s Handbook of

British Mosses=.

Zoology.

For a general introduction to natural history the best books are—=Life

and her Children= (London, 1880), and =Winners in Life’s Race= (London,

1882), by Miss A. B. Buckley (Mrs. Fisher), and Professor Arthur J.

Thomson’s fascinating =Study of Animal Life=, which gives a list of other

books on zoology.

The animals of the seashore are dealt with in Rev. J. G. Wood’s =Common

Objects of the Seashore= and =Fresh and Salt Water Aquarium=; =Seaside

Studies=, by G. H. Lewes; =The Aquarium=, by P. H. Gosse; and =The

Aquarium, its Inhabitants, Structure, and Management=, by J. E. Taylor.

Gosse’s =Manual of Marine Zoology for the British Isles= (2 vols.,

London, 1856) still remains the best book for the identification of

marine animals.

For the study of birds the best works are the following:—=The Birds of

Shetland=, by H. L. Saxby (Edinburgh, 1884); =The Birds of the West of

Scotland=, by Robert Gray; =Bird-Watching= and =The Bird-Watcher in the

Shetlands=, by Edmund Selous.

Saunders’s =Manual of British Birds= (London, 1889) is the best single

book for the identification of birds, each species being illustrated.

=The Vertebrate Fauna of the Orkney Islands=, by J. A. Harvie Brown and

T. E. Buckley (Edinburgh, 1891), is in greater part a list of the birds

of Orkney, with a short account of each.

=Orcadian Papers: being Selections from the Proceedings of the Orkney

Natural History Society from 1887 to 1904.= Edited by M. M. Oharleson,

F.S.A. Scot. (Stromness, 1905.) The selections are not confined to

natural history, but include historical and other contributions.

Fiction, Poetry, etc.

=The Pirate.= By Sir Walter Scott.

=Poems, etc.= By David Vedder. Edited by the Rev. G. Gilfillan.

(Kirkwall, N.D.)

=Poems, Tales, and Sketches.= By Lieutenant John Malcolm, with

introduction by the Rev. G. Gilfillan. (Kirkwall, N.D.)

*=The Orcadian Sketch-Book.= By Walter Traill Dennison. (Kirkwall, 1880.)

A unique collection of stories and poems written in the “North Isles”

dialect of the Orkney vernacular.

=Orcadian Sketches.= By W. T. Dennison. With introduction by J. Storer

Clouston. (Kirkwall, 1904.) A selection from the preceding.

=The Pilots of Pomona.= By Robert Leighton. (London, 1892.)

=Sons of the Vikings.= By Dr. J. Gunn, M.A. (Edinburgh, 1893. Cheaper

edition, 1909.)

=The Boys of Hamnavoe.= By Dr. J. Gunn, M.A. (Edinburgh, 1894.)

=Vandrad the Viking.= By J. Storer Clouston. (Edinburgh, 1897.)

=Garmiscath.= By J. Storer Clouston. (Cheaper edition, London, 1904.)

* * * * *

In addition to the material available in book form, much excellent

literature in prose and in verse, with more or less direct relation to

Orkney, has appeared in various magazines above the names of Duncan

J. Robertson, J. Storer Clouston, and others, specimens of which are

included in the pages of this volume.

THE END.

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN.