No nightingale did ever chaunt So sweetly to reposing bands Of travellers in some shady haunt Among Arabian Sands; No sweeter voice was ever heard In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old unhappy far-off things, And battles long ago;-- Or is it some more humble lay-- Familiar matter of to-day-- Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again? Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sung As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending; I listen'd till I had my fill, And as I mounted up the hill The music in my heart I bore Long after it was heard no more. Towards the foot of the lake, on the opposite side, which was more barren than that on which we travelled, was a bare road up a steep hill, which leads to Glen Finlas, formerly a royal forest. It is a wild and rocky glen, as we had been told by a person who directed our notice to its outlet at Loch Achray. The stream which passes through it falls into that lake near the head. At the end of Loch Voil the vale is wide and populous--large pastures with many cattle, large tracts of corn. We walked downwards a little way, and then crossed over to the same road along which we had travelled from Loch Erne to Callander, being once again at the entrance of Strath Eyer. It might be about four or five o'clock in the afternoon; we were ten miles from Callander, exceedingly tired, and wished heartily for the poor horse and car. Walked up Strath Eyer, and saw in clear air and sunshine what had been concealed from us when we travelled before in the mist and rain. We found it less woody and rich than it had appeared to be, but, with all deductions, a very sweet valley.