Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchuirn and her towers,
Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours;
We're landless, landless, Gregalich!
But doomed and devoted by vassal and lord,
Macgregor has still both his heart and his sword;
Then courage, courage, courage, Gregalich!
If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles,
Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh to the eagles;
Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Gregalich!
While there's leaves in the forest, or foam on the river,
Macgregor despite them, shall flourish forever!
Come then, Gregalich! Come then, Gregalich!
Through the depths of Lochkatrine the steed shall career,
O'er the peak of Benlomond the galley shall steer,
And the rocks of Craig-Royston, like icicles melt,
Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt!
Then gather, gather, gather, Gregalich!"
We reach Lochkatrine, a narrow sheet of water, ten miles in length, winding, in serpentine turns, among the huge mountains which guard it on every side. This, and the wild glen called the Trosachs, are embalmed in the poetry of Sir Walter Scott, whose ethereal genius has imparted to them a charm which they would not otherwise possess. Wild and grand the scenery certainly is, secluded so far among the mountains, and guarded so wondrously by
"Rocky summits, split and rent,"
which, gleaming under the rays of the morning sun, appeared to the eye of poetical inspiration,
"Like turret, dome or battlement,
Or seemed fantastically set
With cupola or minaret,
Wild crests as pagod ever deck'd,
Or mosque of Eastern minaret."
And not only so, but richly adorned with forest-trees and wild flowers among the rifted rocks and the "smiling glades between," lovelier by far than ever met any but a poet's eye.