Harp of the North, that hangs, or used to hang, “On the witch-elm that shades St. Fillan’s spring” (_Which_ elm I know not), wake thy tuneful twang, And keep thy wires in order while I sing In verse of true Sir Walter Scottish ring; And lest your Minstrel’s strength should haply faint Glenlivat shall its inspiration bring; Thus will we make the Sassenach acquaint With blessed Fillan’s life, thy friend and patron Saint. I. If thou would’st view old Pittenweem aright, Go visit it by the broad daylight, For if the night were murky, pray How couldst thou ken that fair Abbaye! And should it eke come on to rain, Thy pleasure would be turn’d to pain; But when the golden sunbeams smile On ruin’d nave and barren aisle, When noontide rays enlivening fall On thirstly floor and weedy wall. So that thou need’st not break thy bones Or shins against the rugged stones, Then go, but take a trusty guide Who knows the country far and wide, And give him half-a-crown or so, To tell thee all that he may know; But should he show thee Fillan’s tomb Within some cloister’s ivied gloom, Believe him not, although he swear, Because the Saint’s not buried there. II. Breathes there the man who having read All that the Northern Bard has said, All the particulars supplied By travellers’ tomes and Murray’s Guide, Of Scotia’s landscapes fair and grand, Longs not to see that favour’d land? Oh, would that _I_ could get the chance To view those regions of romance, What pleasure to be climbing now Ben Dizzy’s stern and lofty brow! How sweet to stand beside the Frith That owes its waters to Loch Smith, To mark Bel-hangar’s ruin’d pile, And Ion-munga’s charmed isle, Whilst in the distance can be seen The giant peaks of Ben Zoleen,[35] And, if the weather be not dull, The fragrant isle of Sneeshin-Mull; And, floating like a mirage there, That phantom ship, the “_Brig_ of _Ayr_” Sails where Loch Toddy’s smile creates A beauty that intoxicates. Then view, my fancy, if thou wilt, Knights tourneying within Glen-_Tilt_, Hear Roderick Dhu and brave Fitz-James Calling each other dreadful names, And see them chase, through bosky dells The _hart_ that “in the Highlands” dwells. Oh, if some friend would pay my fare, How “like a bird” I’d wander there! III.