ld to cross the
brook, and proceed to the other side of the vale, and that no further
directions were necessary, for we should find ourselves at the head of
the lake, and on a plain road which would lead us downward. We waded the
river and crossed the vale, perhaps half a mile or more. The mountains
all round are very high; the vale pastoral and unenclosed, not many
dwellings, and but few trees; the mountains in general smooth near the
bottom. They are in large unbroken masses, combining with the vale to
give an impression of bold simplicity.

Near the head of the lake, at some distance from us, we discovered the
burial-place of the MacGregors, and did not view it without some
interest, with its ornamental balls on the four corners of the wall,
which, I daresay, have been often looked at with elevation of heart by
our honest friend of Loch Ketterine. The lake is divided right across by
a narrow slip of flat land, making a small lake at the head of the large
one. The whole may be about five miles long.

As we descended, the scene became more fertile, our way being pleasantly
varied--through coppices or open fields, and passing farm-houses, though
always with an intermixture of uncultivated ground. It was harvest-time,
and the fields were quietly--might I be allowed to say
pensively?--enlivened by small companies of reapers. It is not uncommon
in the more lonely parts of the Highlands to see a single person so
employed. The following poem was suggested to William by a beautiful
sentence in Thomas Wilkinson's 'Tour in Scotland:' {237}--

Behold her single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass,
Reaping and singing by herself--
Stop here, or gently pass.
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain.
Oh! listen, for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chaunt
So sweetly to reposing bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt
Among Arabian Sands;
No sweeter voice was ever heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old unhappy far-off things,
And battles long ago;--
Or is it some more humble lay--
Familiar matter of to-day--
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sung
As if h