attract the attention of the
visitor to St. Fillans is the picturesque little island at the east end
of the loch, called the Neish Island, for it has its romantic story to
tell. "It is uncertain" (says John Brown in his description of the
place) when or by whom "the island in Loch Earn rose into form or
importance; but that it was entirely the work of man (and certainly it
was no contemptible undertaking) is evident from its circular shape,
the nature of the bed on which it is raised and surrounding it, and the
purpose to which it might be made subservient in lawless times. The
ancestors of the present family of Ardvoirlich made it their occasional
residence, at the remote period when they held the eight-mark land on
which St. Fillans is now built, an endowment which continued annexed to
the Chapel or Priory of Strathfillan till its dissolution at the
Reformation." On the island there are the remains of what appear to
have been a number of dwellings. That it was used as a haunt or refuge
by raiders is certain from the tradition which gives it its name of
Neish Island. According to the tradition, it was the refuge of the
remnant of the Clan Neish who had been defeated in a bloody battle with
the MacNabs. There the former carried on a kind of predatory warfare
with the MacNabs, and on one occasion so roused the wrath of the latter
that a speedy and terrible revenge followed. The stalwart sons of the
MacNab, urged by their wrathful sire, whose hint in the words--"The
night is the night if lads were but lads," almost amounted to a
command, equipped themselves with dirk, pistol, and claymore, raised a
boat on their shoulders, and carrying it by night all the way from Loch
Tay across the hills by Glentarken, launched it stealthily on Loch
Earn, and taking the Neishes by surprise are said to have killed them
all, except one boy, who made good his escape. The following lines by
the Rev. John Hunter, Crieff, give very appropriate expression and
colouring to this interesting tradition:--

Here sit we down on this fair sun-strewn bank,
Beside this queen of lakes, whose loveliness
From out of half-shut eyelids softly woos
To sweet forgetfulness.
Above, the wood, and interspersed knolls,
Made greener by the pat of fairy feet
And dancing moonbeams, fringe the rugged knees
Of scarred and bronzed heights whose wind-notched crests
Look grandly down. Fair scene and home of peace
Ineffable; and yet not eve