Skerryvore Lighthouse Poem by William Messent

An sgeir mhòr - the great rock stands
In mid-Atlantic far from shore.
It's claimed the lives of many hands
From sailing vessels by the score.
And how the winds and waves did roar
Around the rock of Skerryvore.

There came a man called Stevenson,
From watery grave brave souls to save,
To build a lighthouse, he's the one,
Long battling with wind and wave.
And how the winds and waves did roar
Around the rock of Skerryvore.

With granite from the Ross of Mull
He manufactured giant blocks,
Transported them when storms would lull
To land them on the murderous rocks.
And still the winds and waves do roar
Around the rock of Skerryvore.

His team worked hard in every weather
Assembling blocks, dressed to perfection;
With dovetailed joint they locked together -
Precisely engineered, each section.
And still the winds and waves do roar
Around the rock of Skerryvore.

For thirty months o'er six long years
They laboured seventeen hours a day,
With common aim and conquered fears
And mainland safety far away.
All day the winds and waves would roar
Around the rock of Skerryvore.

Completed eighteen forty three,
Immortal and immoveable,
A lonely tower in lonely sea,
Her light still shines - immutable.
For aye the winds and waves will roar
Around the light of Skerryvore.