On its bosom that’s pure as the breast of a maid;
Like a child in sweet rest, in its fairy bed laid,
Touch gently its locks ere its glory will fade.
Oh fair is the vision before me outspread!
Kind nature’s bright face that awakens no dread,
The green woods where songsters attune on each tree
Their throats for sweet warbling—beloved of me.
The Dochart is rushing to Lochy’s domain
To meet her, good woman, so gentle and plain;
When they have embraced and are wed into twain