Seemed his youth again to blossom
With the birth of his fair son.

Late, when all his days had hardened
Into flint his nature wild,
Seemed it softer grown and kinder
For the sake of that one child.

And again a hunting morning
Saw Loch Buy and his men,
With his boy, his guests, and kinsmen,
Hidden o'er a coppiced glen.

Deep within its oaken thickets
Ran its waters to the sea:
On the hill the Chief lay careless,
While the child watched eagerly.

'Neath them, on the shining Ocean,
Island beyond island lay,
Where the peaks of Jura's bosom
Rose o'er holy Oronsay.

Where the greener fields of Islay
Pointed to the far Kintyre,
Fruitful lands of after-ages,
Wasted then with sword and fire.

For the spell that once had gathered
All the chiefs beneath the sway