Loch Cathrine
By J. B.
AMID Loch Cat’rine’s scenery wild
Is seen my lassie’s dwelling,
Where caverned rocks on mountains piled
Howl to the sea-breeze swelling;—
She ’s purer than the snaw that fa’s
On mountain’s summit airy;
The sweetest mountain flower that blaws
Is not so fair as Mary.
’T is sweet when woodland echo rings,
Where purling streams meander,
But sweeter when my Mary sings,
As through the glens we wander.
The wild deer on the mountain side,
The fabled elf or fairy,
Or skiff that skims the crystal tide,
Moves not more light than Mary.
From Lowland plains I ’ve wandered far,
In endless search of pleasure,
Till, guided by some friendly star,
I found this lovely treasure.
Although my native home has charms,
Amang these hills I ’ll tarry;
And while life’s blood my bosom warms,
I ’ll love my dearest Mary.
