Battered by the wind and the sea, lying Forty miles
adrift: gaunt, treeless and bare Where for centuries men
eked a living Taking seabirds from the jagged cliffs
there
Or farmed stony fields, bred sheep and cattle
And clung on there at the edge of the world: Tweed-clad,
cut-off, hardy - doing battle With the elements - till
the tourist arrived
Bringing illnesses the islanders
caught Introducing money that turned them soft;
Destroying the very thing which they sought. So, in the
end, the last St Kildans left
The gannets and the
bothies and the burn Sailed from Hirta quay: never to
return.
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