SKYE OF SKYE

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Skye, of Skye, when the night was late,
And the burly porter drowsy grew,
Ran down to the silent pier, to wait
Till the boat came in with its hardy crew.
Skye, of Skye, as he sat on the pier,
Turned seaward ever a watchful eye,
And his shaggy ears were pricked to hear
The plash of oars, as the boat drew nigh.
Skye, of Skye, when they leaped ashore,
Greeted the crew with a joyful cry—
Kissed their hands, and trotted before
To the inn that stood on the hilltop high.
Within, was the porter sound asleep—
They could almost hear his lusty snore:
Then Skye, of Skye, with an antic leap,
Would pull on the bellrope that swung by the door.
Then was the bolt drawn quickly back back—
Then did the jolly crew stream in;
And—”Landlaird, bring us your best auld sack!”
And—”Aweel, aweel, where hae ye been?”
Then Skye, of Skye, on the beach-white floor,
Sanded that day by the housemaid neat,
Lay down to rest him—his vigils o’er,
With his honest nose between his feet.
But Skye, of Skye as he rolled his eye
On the friendly crowd, heard his master say,
“Na, na, that doggie ye couldna buy—
Not though his weight in gold ye would pay!”
Skye, of Skye, they have made him a bed
On the wind-swept cliff, by the ocean’s swell;
On the stone they have reared above his head,
You may see a little dog ringing a bell.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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