That pure and shy retreat
A Tartar would have spared,
But not that lawyer cur from Inverness,
Who thought its sylvan virgin loveliness
Would bring him gold if rudely bared
And hawked upon the street.

There children checked their race
And crept on tiptoed feet,
Lest they should break upon the rainbow rings
Of fairies glinting through transparent wings,
Or kindly wizard come to meet
A maid with lovelorn face.

No snow nor stinging sleet
Could chill the fairies’ bath;
So close the vaulting was with fir and larch
Which laid deep carpets underneath their arch,
That on the fairies’ silent path
No blast could ever beat.

Mid foam more white than fleece
The waterfall rang sweet,
It made each rocky cup a rippling well,
It coyly dived and peeped along the dell,
Then ran the rising sea to greet,
And greeting found its peace.

And now the cold and heat
Scourge all the glen with ire;
The broken boughs have choked the sobbing stream,
The silver birch is but a sodden beam,
The fairies’ path is sunk in mire,
The moss has left their seat.

Flash sorrow and disdain
For this most sordid feat,
You whom Burns taught to love a daisy’s face,
And Scott to love the mountains’ gloom and grace;
Or say they scattered chaff for wheat,
And sang their songs in vain.