See where the waters dash aside, And swiftly round the thicket glide, Where mossy crag and fan-like bough Inshade the torrent far below. Within a towery wilderness Of nature's wildest gorgeousness, There rose in architecture quaint The cell of Strowan's valiant saint-- A soldier-priest whose claymore long Was more persuasive than his tongue; Here stands his cross, there flows his well, Here still is seen his holy hell; Here, ivy-mantled, still remain The ruins of the ancient fane, Where once to heaven the anthem rose, And silent now the loved repose. On every side each scene has store Of song and legendary lore; Each stream has still its story true, Each height some bloody conflict knew; Each crag must give its meed to fame, And consecrate a hero's name. High o'er the rest, all bleak and dern, Moulders the royal Kenneth's cairn, Who for his crown his good sword bared, And fell in fight at Monzievaird. Even in their church, the doom of fire Consumed the clan of Ochtertyre; And in his home across the plain, Old Drummond-Ernoch was slain; Sons of the mist avenged their dead, And bore away his grisly head. Old tales like these, old legends true, Spring up where'er I turn my view-- From Turret's glen and brawling wave, From Tosach's keep and fairy grave, From Ochtertyre's unfading bower, From Comyn's lone and moated tower, From where our chief with skilful eye Watched wonders in the midnight sky, From Tomachastel's haunted brow, From cell for Ronan's prayer and vow, From lordly Drummond's forest wall, From Lochlane's grim empannelled hall, From stately Turleum clothed in pine, And every height surrounding mine. 'Twere idle then each tale to tell, Of ancient feat by stream or dell, From Benychonzie's snow-clad breast To green Glenartney in the west, Or round by sweet Dunira's den, Where "bonnie Kilmanie gaed up the glen." No need I ween of distant view My sauntering footsteps hence to woo; No need of song or knightly feat To add new charm to my retreat. Its own associations claim Far better meed than modern fame, With books and scenes and neighbours sage, I commune with a former age. BETWEEN STRATHALLAN AND STRATHEARN By Rev. JAMES MACGIBBON, B.D., Blackford.