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!