| |
| PROUD ruin on Loch Leven’s stream, | |
| Whose waters dance with silver gleam, | |
| Beneath the gentle breezes’ swell, | |
| That bear upon their downy wing | |
| The fragrance of the heather bell, | 5 |
| On every wild hill blossoming, | |
| |
| With ivied battlement and tower, | |
| And remnant rude of kingly power, | |
| Thou standest as in days of yore, | |
| When pensive Mary, Scotland’s Queen, | 10 |
| A prisoner on the castled shore, | |
| Gazed on the lake of sparkling sheen. | |
| |
| Thy name with hers is woven yet,— | |
| And who shall Mary’s name forget, | |
| Though thou may’st crumble from the view, | 15 |
| And Leven’s waters cease to run, | |
| Reflecting from their breast of blue | |
| The silver moon and golden sun? | |
| |
| No warden’s fire shall e’er again | |
| Illume Loch Leven’s bosom fair, | 20 |
| Nor clarion shrill of armored men | |
| The breeze across the lake shall bear. | |
| But while remains a stone of thine, | |
| It shall be linked to royal fame, | |
| For there a Rose of Stuart’s line | 25 |
| Hath left the fragrance of her name. | |
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