The Book of Scottish Song/Benlomond

Benlomond.

[John Mitchell.—Here first printed.]

Some may delight to spend their hours,
By limpid streamlets fring'd with flowers,
But give to me the wilds where towers
Thy rocky crest, Benlomond.

Through leafy groves young love may stray,
To sing the joys of rosy May,
But bolder tones must fire his lay
Whose theme's the proud Benlomond.

Dark clouds upon thy forehead rest,
Bed lightnings play around thy crest,
And storm runs riot on thy breast,
Thou heed'st them not, Benlomond.

But when gay summer's in her prime,
And balmy winds steal o'er our clime,
Who would not dare thy heights sublime
And glory in Benlomond.

There far above proud cities we
With wonder fill'd will lean on thee,
Awed by the gorgeous scenery
That round thee spreads, Benlomond.

Sublimity sits throned on thee,
Veil'd in the vast profoundity
That stills, or wakes the inland sea
That bathes thy feet, Benlomond.

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