Andrew James Symington

Inch Cailliach

THE OARS dip, and we lightly skim away,
Leaving behind Dumcruin’s fairy-knowe,
Cone-shaped, and to the summit darkly clad
With bristling pines. Before us, lofty Ben
Towers, green as emerald, in the sunny sky.

  Swiftly we dart ’tween islands fair, that gem
The bosom of the loch; a rippling wake,
On which sun-sparkles play, diverging far
On either side. Inch Cailliach, overgrown
With dingle brushwood, copse, and greenery,
Like some enchanted isle, emerges from
The clear blue lake. We thither turn the prow,
And soon the keel, impelled by lusty strokes,
Runs up the sloping sand-beach. Joyously
We leap ashore, and leave the tiny skiff,
To lose ourselves in thickets, fragrant all
With tufted meadow-sweet, bog-myrtle, heath;
And gather blaeberries, till hands and lips
Are deeply stained with the purple juice.

  Now gazing on the summit of the isle
From the old kirkyard,—for here, in ancient times,
Mid pibrochs wild, in boats the dead were borne
Across the lake, to sleep their last long sleep.
Lo! what a scene of tranquil loveliness!
Kilpatrick braes and Leven’s verdant slopes,
In gentle undulation, stretch away
Towards the south; while towering in the north,
Benvoirlich and the high Glenfalloch range;
Huge mountain masses, sterile rocky steeps,
With blue crags, bound the distance. Over Luss
And Tarbet lie the heights of Arroquhar,
Loch Long and dark Loch Goil; the Cobbler’s strange
Fantastic peak conspicuous in the view.