Note 96 — Chapter XXXIII

In respect that your Grace has commissioned a Kraken, You will please be informed that they seldom are taken; It is January two years, the Zetland folks say, Since they saw the last Kraken in Scalloway bay; He lay in the offing a fortnight or more, But the devil a Zetlander put from the shore, Though bold in the seas of the North to assail The morse and the sea-horse, the grampus and whale. If your Grace thinks I'm writing the thing that is not, You may ask at a namesake of ours, Mr. Scott— (He's not from our clan, though his merits deserve it, But springs, I'm informed, from the Scotts of Scotstarvet;)[96] He questioned the folks who beheld it with eyes, But they differed confoundedly as to its size. For instance, the modest and diffident swore That it seemed like the keel of a ship, and no more— Those of eyesight more clear, or of fancy more high, Said it rose like an island 'twixt ocean and sky— But all of the hulk had a steady opinion That 't was sure a live subject of Neptune's dominion— And I think, my Lord Duke, your Grace hardly would wish, To cumber your house, such a kettle of fish. Had your order related to nightcaps or hose, Or mittens of worsted, there's plenty of those. Or would you be pleased but to fancy a whale? And direct me to send it—by sea or by mail? The season, I'm told, is nigh over, but still I could get you one fit for the lake at Bowhill. Indeed, as to whales, there's no need to be thrifty, Since one day last fortnight two hundred and fifty, Pursued by seven Orkneymen's boats and no more, Betwixt Truffness and Luffness were drawn on the shore! You'll ask if I saw this same wonderful sight; I own that I did not, but easily might— For this mighty shoal of leviathans lay On our lee-beam a mile, in the loop of the bay, And the islesmen of Sanda were all at the spoil, And flinching (so term it) the blubber to boil; (Ye spirits of lavender, drown the reflection That awakes at the thoughts of this odorous dissection.) To see this huge marvel full fain would we go, But Wilson, the wind, and the current said no. We have now got to Kirkwall, and needs I must stare When I think that in verse I have once called it fair; 'Tis a base little borough, both dirty and mean— There is nothing to hear, and there's nought to be seen, Save a church, where, of old times, a prelate harangued, And a palace that's built by an earl that was hanged. But farewell to Kirkwall—aboard we are going, The anchor's a-peak and the breezes are blowing; Our commodore calls all his band to their places, And 't is time to release you—good-night to your Graces!