"Turn back, turn back, thou bonny Scot:
Thy purpose straight abandon:
To return will not be Sir Sinclair's lot,
Should Sir Sinclair Norroway land on."

"A curse on thy strain, thou imp of the main,
Who boding ill art ever!
For what thou dost preach, wert thou in my reach,
Thy limbs I would dissever."

He sail'd for a day, he sail'd for three,
With all his hired legions;
On the fourth day's morn Sir Sinclair he
Saw Norroway's rocky regions.

On Romsdale's sands he quickly lands,
Himself for a foe declaring;
Him follow'd then twelve hundred men
Such evil intentions bearing.

They vex'd the people, where'er they rov'd,
With pillage and conflagration;
Nor them old age's feebleness mov'd,
Nor the widow's lamentation.

The child was slain at the mother's breast,
Though it smil'd on the murderous savage:
But soon went tidings, east and west,
Of all this wo and ravage.