“In fifty keels and five
      Rushed over the pirate swarm,
    Hornets out of the northern hive,
      Hawks on the wings of the storm;
    Blood upon talons and beak,
      Blood from their helms to their heels,
    Blood on the hand and blood on the cheek,—­
      In five and fifty keels!

    “O fierce and terrible horde
      That shout about Orry the Dane,
    Clanging the shield and clashing the sword
      To the roar of the storm-tost main! 
    And hard on the shore they drive
      Ploughing through shingle and sand,—­
    And high and dry those fifty and five
      Are haul’d in line upon land.

    “And ho! for the torch straightway,
      In honour of Odin and Thor,—­
    And the blazing night is as bright as the day
      As a gift to the gods of war;
    For down to the melting sand
      And over each flaring mast
    Those fifty and five they have burnt as they stand
      To the tune of the surf and the blast!

    “A ruthless, desperate crowd,
      They trample the shingle at Lhane,
    And hungry for slaughter they clamour aloud
      For the Viking, for Orry the Dane! 
    And swift has he flown at the foe—­
      For the clustering clans are here,—­
    But light is the club and weak is the bow
      To the Norseman sword and spear: 

    “And—­woe to the patriot Manx,
      The right overthrown by the wrong,—­
    For the sword hews hard at the staggering ranks,
      And the spear drives deep and strong: 
    And Orry the Dane stands proud
      King of the bloodstained field,
    Lifted on high by the shouldering crowd
      On the battered boss of his shield!

    “Yet, though such a man of blood,
      So terribly fierce and fell,
    King Orry the Dane had come hither for good,
      And governed the clans right well;
    Freedom and laws and right,
      He sowed the good seed all round—­
    And built up high in the people’s sight
      Their famous Tynwald Mound;

    “And elders twenty and four
      He set for the House of Keys,
    And all was order from shore to shore
      In the fairest Isle of the Seas: 
    Though he came a destroyer, I wist
      He remained as a ruler to save,
    And yonder he sleeps in the roadside kist
      They call King Orry’s Grave.”

It was at Castle Mona that I first met Walter Montgomery, who read these very lines to great effect at one of his Recitations, and thereafter produced at Manchester my play of “Alfred.”  He was, amongst other accomplishments, a capital horseman, and when he galloped over the sands on his white horse, he would jump benches with their sitters, calling out “Don’t stir, we shall clear you!” It would have required no small coolness and courage to have abided his charge, and though I saw him do this once, I question if he was allowed to repeat the exploit.