FERNS. 31 



branches, where the waters well and murmur, and the glad 

 young creatures splash merrily in and out, now glancing 

 in the sunbeams, and again as rapidly disappearing. 



Princes have their palaces and country houses, some for 

 state, others for enjoyment ; and thus it is with me. Loch 

 Tyne is of all places the one "beloved the most;" but my 

 metropolis is Cunnemera, in the west of Ireland, and there 

 no other fern may lift his head. The islands are subject to 

 my sway, and the tranquil waters that flow around seem proud 

 to reflect my image. At Loch Tyne dwelt the waterman 

 old Osmund, whose heart, as poets sing, is impressed in my 

 roots when cut. Who that ever lingers in that wild spot, 

 does not hear the legend of old Osmund, which young 

 watermen of the present day sing to the dipping of their 

 oars, and the echoes repeat from out their haunts in the 

 wood-side ? 



Fairest among maidens was the daughter of Osmund, the 

 waterman. Her light-brown hair and glowing cheek told 

 of her Saxon origin, and her light steps bounded over the 



