In th' Inverary Castle high, [Note 713.1]
While quick the whirling paddles fly,
We scarce receive the hours gae by,
At sailing she's sae brave o't.
A' ye wha would a-hunting gang,
To places fam'd in Highland sang,
Where old Fingal¹ did foe-men bang,
An' aft gave them a grave o't:
Around the lofty mountains rise,
That hide their heads amid the skies;
While wide the loch in propect lies,
An' mony a curling wave o't.
While swiftly o'er the waves we fly,
On every sie the hills run by;
Beneath a mild and pleasant sky,
We'll whistle o'er the lave o't.