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A way ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses, In you let the minions of luxury rovcrove [sic]; Restore are the rocks where the snow-flake reposes, If still they are sacred to freedom and love. Yet, Caledonia, dear are thy mountains, Round their white summits tho' elements war, Tho' cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth flowing fountains, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch-na-garr.

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd; My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid, On chieftains departed my memory ponder'd, As daily I stray'd through the pine cover'd glade. I sought not my home till the days dying glory, Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star; For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story, Disclos'd by the natives of dark Loch-na-garr.

Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices, Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale? Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, And rides on the wind, oʻ'r his own Highland dale. Round Loch-na-garr, while the stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold icy car;