Perhaps like this the songs she used to wail
In the rough northern tongue of Aberdeen:—­

      Ye’ll hae me yet, ye’ll hae me yet,
        Sae lang an’ braid, an’ never a hame! 
      Its nae the depth I fear a bit,
        But oh, the wideness, aye the same!

      The jaws[1] come up, wi’ eerie bark;
        Cryin’ I’m creepy, cauld, an’ green;
      Come doon, come doon, he’s lyin’ stark,
        Come doon an’ steek his glowerin’ een.

      Syne wisht! they haud their weary roar,
        An’ slide awa’, an’ I grow sleepy: 
      Or lang, they’re up aboot my door,
        Yowlin’, I’m cauld, an’ weet, an’ creepy!

        O dool, dool! ye are like the tide—­
          Ye mak’ a feint awa’ to gang;
        But lang awa’ ye winna bide,—­
          An’ better greet than aye think lang.

[Footnote 1:  Jaws:  English, breakers.]

Where’er she fled, the same voice followed her;
Whisperings innumerable of water-drops
Growing together to a giant voice;
That sometimes in hoarse, rushing undertones,
Sometimes in thunderous peals of billowy shouts,
Called after her to come, and make no stay. 
From the dim mists that brooded seaward far,
And from the lonely tossings of the waves,
Where rose and fell the raving wilderness,
Voices, pursuing arms, and beckoning hands,
Reached shorewards from the shuddering mystery. 
Then sometimes uplift, on a rocky peak,
A lonely form betwixt the sea and sky,
Watchers on shore beheld her fling wild arms
High o’er her head in tossings like the waves;
Then fix them, with clasped hands of prayer intense,
Forward, appealing to the bitter sea. 
Then sudden from her shoulders she would tear
Her garments, one by one, and cast them far
Into the roarings of the heedless surge,
A vain oblation to the hungry waves. 
Such she did mean it; and her pitying friends
Clothed her in vain—­their gifts did bribe the sea. 
But such a fire was burning in her brain,
The cold wind lapped her, and the sleet-like spray
Flashed, all unheeded, on her tawny skin. 
As oft she brought her food and flung it far,
Reserving scarce a morsel for her need—­
Flung it—­with naked arms, and streaming hair
Floating like sea-weed on the tide of wind,
Coal-black and lustreless—­to feed the sea. 
But after each poor sacrifice, despair,
Like the returning wave that bore it far,
Rushed surging back upon her sickening heart;
While evermore she moaned, low-voiced, between—­
Half-muttered and half-moaned:  “Ye’ll hae me yet;
Ye’ll ne’er be saired, till ye hae ta’en mysel’.”