POETRY.

A REMINISCENCE OF BEN LOMOND.

FROM Rowardennan up the Ben

We climbed with flying pennon, And then we started down again, But not for Rowardennan,- 'Through sun and shade to Inversnaid Oh, weary miles we travelled !

By paths that wound, and tracks that strayed, Not easily unravelled.

We clambered up, we wriggled down, Hard rocks that held no roots in, Or picked our path o'er moor and strath That sucked our very boots in; For bogs abound on grassy ground In Scottish mountain-ranges, And we were bogged as on we jogged, Content to take life's changes.

A headland lay some miles away, Clear in the haze before us, Within whose shade was Inversnaid, To which our fortunes bore us; And close as clear it now seemed near, But when we'd journeyed forward It loomed less fair, one might declare, Miles further to the nor'ward.

For while we pushed in sorry plight Through some ravine or valley, 'The lively height, concealed from sight, Itself would make a sally; And all the heathery hills between, Arising as from slumber, And all the rocks that intervene, Would grow in size and number.

Oh, how we toiled and how we moiled Through boggy land and moorland ! Oh, how we trudged and how we drudged, Still making for the foreland !

Yet when, towards night, we gained the height, Sad fate for saint or sinner !

No Inversnaid stood out in sight To welcome us to dinner.

No Inversnaid, no man or maid, But other heights and ridges,

And brooks and burns with mazy turns,

But none of them with bridges,—

Ravine and bog to check and clog, And others still succeeding, While yet to fill one's cup of ill The night came down unheeding.

But sweet the rest at Inversnaid, And rare mine host's refection, And if you care to sojourn there Pray take the same direction,— Go up the Ben and down again, And by the way we wended, And you shall not have toiled in vain When all your journey's ended.

GEORGE COTTERELL.