There stood the son and father; And they looked high and low; The heather was red around them, The sea rumbled below. And up and spoke the father, Shrill was his voice to hear: “I have a word in private, A word for the royal ear.
“Life is dear to the aged, And honour a little thing; I would gladly sell the secret,” Quoth the Pict to the king. His voice was small as a sparrow’s, And shrill and wonderful clear; “I would gladly sell my secret, Only my son I fear.
“For life is a little matter, And death is nought to the young; And I dare not sell my honour Under the eye of my son. Take him , O king, and bind him, And cast him far in the deep: And it’s I will tell the secret, That I have sworn to keep.”
They took the son and bound him, Neck and heels in a thong, And a lad took him and swung him, And flung him far and strong, And the sea swallowed his body, Like that of a child of ten;— And there on the cliff stood the father, Last of the dwarfish men.
“True was the word I told you: Only my son I feared; For I doubt the sapling courage That goes without the beard. But now in vain is the torture, Fire shall never avail; Here dies in my bosom The secret of Heather Ale.”