Half an hour afterwards, Maggie May, Bob, and I were on the braes above
Balhaggarty. We lay ourselves down on a sweet mossy bank, bedecked with
many a wild flower; peacock butterflies are floating in the sunshine,
and great velvety bees make drowsy music in the air; and not far off, on
a branch of a brown-trunked fir-tree, cock-robin is singing his clear,
crisp little song. Before us, beneath us, and on every side, is spread
out one of the fairest landscapes in all the wild romantic North. Woods
and water, hills and dales, stretch away as far as the eye can reach.
Yonder is the wimpling Ury, meandering through the peaceful valley to
join the winding Don. Near its banks stands, or lies, or rather lies
and sleeps, and seems to dream, the village of Inverurie. Very blue are
the roofs of its houses in the surrounding greenery, very white are its
granite walls, and its spires and steeples look like snow or marble in
the autumn sunshine.
That was the village home of one of Scotia's noblest bards--the gentle,
genial Thom. Though six-and-thirty years have fled since they laid him
to rest in the moors, there is more than one old man and woman living in
the village there yet, who knew him in his prime, and have stories well
worth listening to, to tell of the poet of the Ury; but as long as
pine-trees shall nod on Scottish hills, as long as the dark plumes of
Caledonia's sons shall wave in the van of battle, so long will Thom's
name be known in the land of his nativity, and among his countrymen all
over the world.
Far to the right of the spot where we are reclining, the giant mountain,
Ben-na-chie, rears its proud head into the air.
It is a solitary hill, and yet tourists to this land of romance ought to
know that from its summit the view obtained on a fine day is probably
more beautiful, varied, and extensive than any other I know of in "a'
braid Scotland."