We arrove in Glasgow with no fatal results a-flowin’ from our voyage, and we put up at a good sizable tarvern, where we had plenty of things for our comfort and luxury.
Amongst the things of luxury, I counted the water that I drinked from day to day, for I found that it wuz water brung from Loch Katrine.
And when you remember Ellen’s Isle, as described by Sir Walter Scott, is right there in Loch Katrine—you may perhaps imagine the height and depth of my emotions.
Why, the very water I sipped, and wet my front hair with mornings before my lookin’-glass, may have gurgled and murmured round the very isle where Ellen Douglas dwelt in her father’s hidden lodge, covered with ivy and Idien vines.
Samantha and Ellen Douglas.
“The rocky isle with copsewood bound,
Where weeping birch and willow round
With their long fibres swept the ground.”
Where she dwelt and roamed, dreaming of Malcolm Graeme, and where she met the King of Scotland, onbeknown to her.