the copsewood grey
That waved and wept on Loch Achray;
and climbed up among
the pine trees blue
On the bold cliffs of Ben Venue.
We passed along 'Bocastle's heath' and reached the shores of Loch Vennachar, more fortunate than the huntsmen of the poem, most of whom gave up from sheer exhaustion before they reached that place. For,
when the Brig o' Turk was won,
The headmost horseman rode alone.
This picturesque old stone bridge, spanning the little stream that waters the valley of Glen Finglas, is the entrance to the Trossachs, a region, as the name implies, of wild and rugged beauty.
Alone, but with unbated zeal,
That horseman plied the scourge and steel;
For jaded now, and spent with toil,
Embossed with foam, and dark with soil,
While every gasp with sobs he drew,
The labouring stag strained full in view.
Thus the race went along the shore of Loch Achray until they reached the dense woods that lie between this little lake and Loch Katrine. Then just as the hunter,—
Already glorying in the prize,
Measured his antlers with his eyes,
the wily stag dashed suddenly down a darksome glen and disappeared