Summer at the Lake of Monteith

Monteith. 159
There's now no smile of monarch there,
Nor din of courtiers fill the air;
No chieftains meeting, as of yore,
Nor sturdy clansmen tread the shore:
No march of warriors round Porten',
Nor sound of pibroch in the glen.
The fiery cross has ceased to fly;
No signal on Crochmelly high
Doth fling its glare athwart the night,
To gather clansmen to the fight;
Or tell the men of Aberfoyle
That neighbouring clans invade the soil.
No sign of strife along the hill;
Mondhuie's slopes are quiet and still;
No war-cry, heard across yon brake,
Returns its echoes from the Lake;
No sound of hunters, with the horn,
Breaks the soft stillness of the morn;
Nor wide the hounds their echoes fling,
To start the game from out Milling,
Where, deep amid the Claggan dell,
The last fierce wolf of Scotland fe'l;
And where, amid thy tangled fold,
Erave monarchs chased the deer of old.
The fox was killed on yonder steep,
The otter in the reedy deep,
The stag within the brake was sought,
And from Craigvad the wolf was brought.
In Calziemuck's deep shades alane,
The wild boar stood and shook his mane;
And, far among the copse profound
He bade defiance to the hound,
Till, issuing from the thicket clear,
He yielded to the Royal spear.
But, though those scenes have passed away,
And higher honours seen decay,
A shadowy grandeur gleams beneath
The faded glories of Monteith.
The Lake, the glen, the rock, the hill —
Monteith, Monteith remaineth still!
Come with me, then: in fancy's flight
Be guided to yon heathery height,