Once more, once more again

    On me, from city cares who fly,
    Lochleven, like a loving eye,
    Looks round the shoulder of the hills,
    And all life’s artificial ills

Pass from me with their pain!

The smoke will leave a stain;

    In absence of the cleansing shower
    The dust will dim the freshest flower:
    Happy the heart on whom the dust
    Of active life (for blow it must)

Grows not a thing in grain!

Nor are those ills in vain:

    They come upon our passions here
    Like winter rigors on the year —
    The purer are the daisies’ dyes
    When spring comes round, bluer the skies,

And welcomer the rain!

To some the breezy main;

    To some the moors and burns; to some
    Who cannot go, sweet thoughts will come;
    To me, enfranchisement from ills
    When gleams, as now, between the hills

Lochleven o’er the plain!