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O lang, land may the ladies sit
Wi' thair gold kems in their hair,
Waiting for thair ain deir lords
For they'll se thame na mair.
Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour,
It's fiftie fadom deip:
And thair lies guid Captain Cailín,
Wi' the logbook incomplete.
Ah, whit grim dairstard did the deed?
Word goes 'gainst Eomer,
Yet Weslamond there sits content
Nursing a scheme not fair?
Well, that was rather stupid of us. I know I was overdoing the Scotch. But can you imagine my emotions when I checked the chart and found Norroway was the other side of the flipping ocean?
Ahem. More when there is more of moment to discourse (and balladify) upon.
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Among the friendly dead, being bad at games did not seem to matter
-Il Lupo Fenriso
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