Rob Roy

Chapter 19

Farewell to the land where the clouds love to rest,

Like the shroud of the dead, on the mountain's cold breast

To the cataract's roar where the eagles reply,

And the lake her lone bosom expands to the sky.

Our route lay through a dreary, yet romantic country, which the distress

of my own mind prevented me from remarking particularly, and which,

therefore, I will not attempt to describe. The lofty peak of Ben Lomond,

here the predominant monarch of the mountains, lay on our right hand, and

served as a striking landmark. I was not awakened from my apathy, until,

after a long and toilsome walk, we emerged through a pass in the hills,

and Loch Lomond opened before us. I will spare you the attempt to

describe what you would hardly comprehend without going to see it. But

certainly th