106 LOCH LOMOND.
His gray locks streaming to the gale, And followed by his squadrons pale.
Yes, slender aid from Fancy s glass It needs, as round these shores we pass, Mid glen and thicket dark, to scan The wild MacGregor s stormy clan, Emerging, at their chieftain s call, To foray or to festival ; While nodding plumes and tartans bright Gleam wildly o er each glancing height.
But as the spectral vapors rolled Away in vestments dropped with gold, The healthier face of summer sky, With the shrill bagpipe s melody, Recall, o er distant ocean s foam, The fondly treasured scenes of home ; And thoughts, on angel-pinions driven, Drop in the heart the seeds of heaven, Those winged seeds, whose fruit sublime Decays not with decaying time.
The loving child, the favorite theme Of morning hour or midnight dream, The tender friend so lowly laid Mid our own church-yard s mournful shade, The smitten babe, who never more Must sport around its father s door, Return they not, as phantoms glide, And silent seat them at our side ?
�� �
