Eagles scream from isle to shore;
Down all the rocks the torrents roar;
O’er the black waves incessant driven,
Dark mists infect the summer heaven.
Through the rude barriers of the lake,
Away it’s hurrying waters break,
Faster and whiter dash and curl,
Till down yon dark abyss they hurl.
The eagles may be gone now, but Sir Walter Scott’s poem still captures the dramatic beauty of his “Loch-skene”. This weekend I decided to pay it a visit.
