Epigraph
There is a spell woven by restless seas,
A secret charm that haunts our Island air,
Holding our hearts and following everywhere
The wandering children of the Orcades;
And still, when sleep the prisoned spirit frees,
What dim void wastes, what strange dark seas we dare,
Till where the dear green Isles shine low and fair
We moor in dreams beside familiar quays.
Sons of the Isles! though ye may roam afar,
Still on your lips the salt sea spray is stinging,
Still in your hearts the winds of youth are singing;
Though in heavens grown familiar to your eyes
The Southern Cross is gleaming, for old skies
Your hearts are fain and for the Northern Star.
Duncan J. Robertson
(“Chambers’s Journal.” By permission.)