By Robert Rendall
Aald Jeems o’ Quoys, wha erst wi’ leid and line
Keen as a whitemaa, reaped the Rousay Soond,
And in his weathered yawl a twalmonth syne
Set lapster-creels the Westness craigs aroond,
Nae stroke o’ fortune cloured wi’ bluidy claa,
Nor glow’ring daith wi’ sudden tempest mocked,
But in his wee thatched croft he wore awa’
E’en as a cruisie flickers oot unslockt.
Nae kinsman raised, nor wife, nor weeping w’ain,
But we, his yamils, this memorial stane.