 Ports of Call. On blue horizons far at the world's end, strange fascinating lands back in us, bid us revel in their exotic splendors. Come with us as we head for Ports of Call. Northward through the irish sea, our giant steamer carries us swiftly toward our port of call, Scotland. The distant hills are purple with fragrant heather. The sodden mists of morning lift to reveal a shore of crags and cliffs, with here and there the dimming beacons of lighthouses, fading into the dew-dappened dawn. Off to starboard we see a village where in the quiet splendor of simplicity, early rising farmers and merchants are making ready for another day. That village is balan-free, famed in fiction by Robert Louis Stevenson. Unto the north our ship glides silently through the Firth of Clyde, past Greenock, past Gumbarton, finally into the muddy, sluggish waters of the river Clyde. As two tiny tugs guide us into our birth between two great piers, we see ahead a modern, busy city. Great Gothic spires point heavenward, guarding and guiding the millions of souls who bustle along in sturdy activity below. Fine parks, broad boulevards, electric lights, street railways and subways. All the evidences of 20th century civilization greet our fascinated gaze as we realize we have reached a city called Glasgow, the mightiest and most important city of old Scotland. With all this activity of modern times fades away in the soft half-light of the magnificent Gothic cathedral in the north-eastern part of Glasgow. Dating from the year 1240 AD, this great edifice has been the scene of many an important event, not the least of which occurred in 13006. A solemn, visaged, intense, vigorous man stands within a small anti-room of a beautiful, sympathetic woman. Lay out a stalwart scot, Robert Bruce, and his gentle wife, Elizabeth. It will not be long, no, Rob. Eh? Not long before you and I are king and queen of Scotland. Oh, Rob, are you certain this is the right course to pursue? I know not, Miss. I know not. My friends have all told me they will stand behind me whatever occurs. Edwin O'England is a powerful monarch, Robert. I will, I cannot. Rob, I want you to know that no matter what happens, I will always be by your side, wishing you the best of success, praying for you. Ah, good best. Good last. I know full well that you, at least, are loyal to me and to Scotland. Ah, Lindsay Crawford. Everything is prepared, sir. Sire. Sire. It is a strange sounding word. Come, then, to the throne. Lindsay, is that not to wish it? The Bishop of Glasgow? Aye, it is, Sire. With a consent of four bishops, five heirs, and the people of the land, I place this crown upon thy head and crown thee, Robert I, King of Scotland. I place this crown upon thy head and thus crown thee Elizabeth, Queen of Scotland. May God in his omnipotent wisdom bless thee and thee and bring into thy hearts the power for great good works. Amen. Thus, Robert Bruce and his good wife, Elizabeth, first wore the golden circlates which were the crowns of the sovereign rulers of the Scots. But, though their calls seemed right, the way was to be long and difficult. Hardly had Robert ascended his makeshift throne, then a skirmish took place between his forces and the superior army of Edward of England at Methman. Bruce was twice unhorsed and once actually captured to be rescued by his brother-in-law, Christopher Seton. The battle ended, and of a draggled little party escaped to the woods of Athol. Oh! Where is Capatric? He has woken at the folk of the road for a news, Sire. News? The messenger from Edward told us the King of England was sending you a decree, Sire. Decree? From the King of England? Elizabeth. Hi, Robert. I have made plans for you. You and our daughter are to be escorted by some of the older knights to Kildromy Castle. You will all be safer there than we are. I meant what I said, Rob, when I told you I would stay with you always. I know. That blue verily means more to me than you'll ever can best. But for the sake of your crown you must hide for a wee time. Oh, Rob, what would become of us all? Our cause is just best. We are the symbols of Scottish liberty. If we are not faith in our own strength, that cause will be lost. I'm sorry, Robert. I promise you I will have faith. Truly, you are a queenly person best, and I love you for it. Here is Capatric, Sire. Ah. And what is the news, Capatric? King Redmond has issued a proclamation decreeing that all persons who should harm the traitors to the throne of England will be hung. Ah, that means the entire Scotland. For our people are loyal, and if it be necessary to harbour any ours, they will do it. See that the women and the old men are started on the way to control me. When we are one our fight best, I will come for you. To horse and horse! The years dragged on, eight turbulent years. Finally on a desolate little island off the Antrim Coast, spending the severe winters in a hovel in the wilds of Arran, Robert Bruce lies upon his bed of dry heather. Huh? Oh, an island? A messenger has just rode in. We knew it was the English. What news? King Edward is dead. Edward? Dead? Aye, Sire. At Bertrand's son's in Cumberland. His son is no Edward the Second. It is a better word to say, Lindsay, but this is a boon to Scotland. Aye, Sire, a king. Look there. What are you seeing? A spider up there in the rafters. A spider? Aye. That beastie, my friend, is Robert Bruce, King of the Scots. No, wait, wait. Six times he had tried to swing himself by his fine web thread after to this one. Six times he had failed. Six times I had tried to free Scotland for the Yorker English oppression. And six times I had failed. No, in this dire war, I watched this spider. A few minutes ago, I was ready to give up the ghost. Yes, I was. Killed, drummy, her fallen, and my wife and Ben. Where are they? Seaton, Fraser, Don, Athol, Centre Trial, my brothers Alexander and Thomas, both captured and killed. I killed, Sire. I had been beaten for a meth and healed to Loudon. Six times, six times, Lindsay, at this wee spider. If that beastie be successful in hanging his thread to this rafter, I will take it as a sign that Robert Bruce shall be successful. Watch, Lindsay, watch. No, there is done it. And we shall do it too. Call the councillor war. Let Edward II bring every man he has. And we will fight them while they may. This is the time for Scotland to strike. The odds are great against us, Sire. Now, Lindsay, but ours is the righteous cause. And for the rest, my God will fight. Then shall I call the men to order. I would speak to them. All sports, double men of Scotland. Here is your king, Robert Bruce. As you prepare yourself for the fray this day, I call to your minds the thing that is fighting for conquest, Scotland for liberty. There will be no mercy shown to conquer people this day. If there be utter monger who is not prepared to conquer or be with your king, then he may leave the field. Then we stand together, remember your manhood this hour. Remember the insolent brides or England's king. I call on you. Bring victory to the cause of Scotland. No, kneel in silent prayer to your God. Are you prepared for the fray, Scotland? Sire! Terribly wounded, Sire. Nay, Lindsay, I'm yet alive. Sire, I have brought to your prison I have taken in the battle. Who? The early Hereford, hey, Constable England. What? Aye, he seeks mercy, Sire. Mercy? I would talk with him. He is here, Sire. Oh, My Lord Hereford, you seek mercy for your hands? I do. My office to entitle me to such consideration. Aye. Then, My Lord, there will be two persons in the hands of your king who also are entitled to such consideration. Whom do you mean? Elizabeth of Scotland, my queen, and my daughter. Aye, I understand. You may make it known to your king that when the queen of Scots and Albania return to their own country into the throne, then the early Hereford, high Constable of England, will be returned to his country. I shall communicate your decrees at once. You may retire with your prisoner, Lindsay. Aye, Sire. And sick of your insolence. Well, here, this is the worker king. But at least they may say our Robert Bruce. When he had ganged to his god, Scotland is free. Thus was founded the long line of kings bearing the noble name of Bruce. Down the years they marched, David II, Robert II, he who became the first steward on the throne of Scotland, then all the stewards bearing the name of James, from first to then. And then, in 1542, when James V died at Calavera Castle, his infant daughter ascended the throne under the regency of her mother. Sent to France for her education, the little girl later was married to the Dolphin, who died two years later, leaving her a widow at the age of 18. Sponsored by her infamous uncles, the princes of the bigoted and bloody House of Guise, tutored under the guidance of her diabolical mother-in-law, Catherine de Medici, reared in the corrupt court of France, returned to the land of her birth to assume her rightful duties as sovereign. What could have been expected from a rule, say plots and counter-plots, intrigues, intolerance, and the spilling of blood from the wrecked bodies of those who stood in her way? This was the prettiest preacher for whom Scottish nobles and peasants fought and died. This was the magnificent woman against whom the reformer John Knox preached from his Protestant pulpit. This was the queen who caused, directly or indirectly, the murderers of her advisor, and later her husband. This was Mary, queen of Scots. It is early evening on the first day of February 1587. In a room at Botheringay Castle, a woman in black velvet sits at the heavily barred window, watching, waiting, finally. I expected you sooner, my lord. I am sorry, my lady. Well? I bring you dire tidings. Her majesty has finally acceded to the demands of some of her advisors. She placed her signature to the warrant but an hour ago. So... So I am to die. Please, Fransbury, assist me to rise. My limbs are ever weaker. Certainly, my lady. Thank you. I want to look at the sun for the last time. Not the last, my lady. When is the execution to take place? One week from this day. Well, no matter. The sun sets for me today. So... Mary Stuart dies. And at the hand of Elizabeth Tudor. Elizabeth has always been jealous of me. She has little reason now, after holding me captive for 18 years. My cheeks are sunken. My eyes are dull and lifeless. My skin is drab and yellow. I cannot walk without help. Not much like the young girl who held court at Hollywood. I am old. Old! But not with years. No. I am only 45. Too young to die. But too old to live. Elizabeth hates me. As Murray hates me. As Donley hated me. As Riven hated me. But I have had love to Rizio. Poor David. He died for me. And the bad wolf. Elizabeth can steal my life. But she cannot steal my memories. Seven days. Seven short days. And seven long nights. And then... When I mount those bloody stairs, I will have but one thought. Elizabeth cannot always live. And when she dies, my son will be king of England. Finally, more than a hundred years after the execution of Mary, Queen of Scots, the better struggle between England and Scotland came to an end. During the reign of Queen Anne in 1706, the last meeting of the Parliament of Scotland was held, for a final union between the two disturbed countries. And since that time, the history of Scotland has merged into the history of England and Great Britain. In the middle of the 18th century, there was born to humble swathe William Burns of Ayrshire, a son destined for all times to epitomize the innate lyric joy of the Scotty soul. He was Chris and Robert, and was the first of seven children. As he grew into manhood, his only library comprising a booklet of poems in the Bible, displayed unusual talents for verse writing. And because of his merry, carefree nature, he became a prime favorite among the lads and lasses of the countryside. With his brother Gilbert, we see him enjoying the rigorous steps of the Highland Plain, accompanied by the Village Piper. How did you find your place? Now my bridges have dented, they're yours. What? I bought them for the occasion. William, I'll povele you within an inch of your life. Oh, I most forgot. Had you forgot, Bobby Burns, not that teeny armor is waiting for you at the style. Yeah, along with you, you're a pack of fools. Oh, well, come on then. You all can that Bobby Burns is a dull person, indeed, when his mind is on genie armor. Genie armor! Me hat's in the Heelands, me hat's in the Heelands, me hat's in the Heelands, o'chasing the deer, o'chasing the wildeer, and following the roar, me hat, a genie. Good morning to you, Bobby. Oh, genie, I did not see you sitting there on the style. Aye, I had noticed that you did not see me. Ah, but no. No, wait, Bobby, you cannot kiss me yet. Why? What have I done the new that you're acting like a spoiled bear? I've been thinking that it's after late that you have not been seeing me. Ah, genie, did not say such things. You came for a will that I love you with all my heart. Do you love me? Do you genie? I'm afraid I do. Afraid? Why should you be afraid of loving me? Ah, Bobby Byrne, it is true what they say. What they say? That you can win a lass's heart with your verse and with your song, and that after you have won it, you can break it as easily. I can what you're thinking. It is about Clarinda. Aye, oh Bobby, if you were to treat me like you had treated her, I could not live. I would die. Ah, genie, my sweet, sweet Lou. Fear you not. But I have sworn to love and protect you for I. And what I promise that I'll do, I'll let us be wed, my genie. Wid? Aye. We'll be man and wife. Will you marry me, genie? Aye, Bobby. Well, what are the tears for? Are you sorry that you're to be Mrs. Robert Byrne's? No, I'm crying. Ah, then I want to be Kirk. And on the morrow, there'll be a new bride in earth here. Robert. Aye. Your path and your clothes. Aye. Where are you again, Robert? To Edinburgh. Again? Aye, again. Oh, Bobby, you had changed so much since you knew the great Robert Byrne. You once were so kind and thoughtful. Stop it, stop your snivelling. I'm Gainewa on business. Goodbye, Vanua. Oh, no, no, Bobby. Didn't again, War. Bobby Byrne. What he had done to me. Up and ever, up the ladder of fame climbed Robert Byrne's. His innermable flirtations always ending into the spare of self-reproach. And what a little genie armor all this time. Ah, yes. He went back to her. She bore him four children. He provided a comfortable home with his income as excisement for Dumfries. But it was not until about 1795 that weary, sick, tired, he came to an ultimate realization. The doctor said him on eat, Robert. Ah, thank you, Jean. Have you been writing again? No, no, no, I've been thinking. Thinking? Oh. I have been a poor husband to you, Jean. Oh, no, no, you've provided for me and the barons bear a will, Robert. That is now what I mean. And you can for will. I mean, I have been selfish, arrogant, thoughtless, careless with my affections. Oh, let us not talk about it, Robert. I, I... I'm on talk about it. But I'm changing my ways, Jean. You're changing? Your ways? You mind the reverse, I read. To make a happy fireside climb for weens and wife. That's the true pathos and sublime of human life. Remember that one, Jean? I, I remember. Tis my creed, Fredis, moment on, Jean. Oh, body. If I could only believe those precious words. You can believe. You non-believe what I say. Our genie, Fredis, moment on, tis for old Langzine. The next year at the early age of 37, Robert Burns died. But he left all true Scots. Yes, the whole world, the rich legacy of his lyric verse. Once more, we're back on the river Clyde at Renfershire, where the great ship-building yards of John Brown and Company Limited have sent such noteworthy vessels as the Lusitania, the Aquitania, and others down the ways toward the sea. It is a drizzling day in October of 1934, and last-minute preparations for another launching. So far, the huge ship has borne only the numeric title of 534, and the whole world awaits the revelation of her real name. A gray-haired, stately woman stands on a glass-enclosed platform, a bottle of Australian wine in her hand. By her side is a bearded, slightly stoop gentleman in uniform of admiral of the British fleet and a younger man. These are the monarchs of the British Empire. Queen Mary, King George V, and the Prince of Wales later to be acclaimed Edward VIII. An official of the ship-building company now has his head. Activity ceases. And the stately queen crashes the bottle against the 45,000 ton hull. I am happy to name the ship Queen Mary. She presses a button, and the huge black steel bolt begins the descent of the smoothly greased waves to take the water for the first time. The rumble-proceeding initial splash is covered by the exultant shouts as they forget the Scotch mist in which they have been standing for hours and throw their umbrellas into the air and while salute to their Queen, Queen Mary and the graceful ship burying her name. We're on our own ship now, leaving Scotland once more. The Scotland the world knows today as a land of sturdy, brifty, stolid people. A land of beauty in its heathered hills and shimmering lakes. And as the crags of the western coast farewell Scotland's bleak domains, far dearer than the torrid plains where rich and honours blow. All hail then the gale then wafts me from thee, dear shore. It rustles and whistles. I'll never see thee more. We invite you to join us again next week in this time as we journey to another of the world's fascinating ports of call.