Waked still Loch Doine, and to the source
Alarm’d, Balvaig, thy swampy course;
Thence southward turn’d its rapid road
Adown Strath-Gartney’s valley broad,
Till rose in arms each man might claim
A portion in Clan-Alpine’s name,
From the gray sire, whose trembling hand
Could hardly buckle on his brand,
To the raw boy, whose shaft and bow
Were yet scarce terror to the crow.