PROCEEDINGS—PERTHSHIRE SOCIETY OF NATURAL SCIENCE. lix 
Glen Lochay. Starting from Luib station we worked our way up to 
some high rocks called Sgiath Chrom, but found that they were hard 
and not productive. Thence by a more gradual ascent we reached 
the summit, where a meeting of the Club was held in due form. 
After initiation of several new members and transaction of other 
business, the following poem—written, as customary, for the occasion 
—was read :— 
Apollo smiles. The sun shines o’er the hills, 
Lighting with quiv’ring darts the silver rills, 
Whilst round the altar of the morning god 
Swift-footed fauns are dancing on the sod; 
White-throated nymphs are chanting sweet and low, 
All happy in the sunshine and the glow 
Of tangled light among the branches green. 
The birds are singing in their leafy screen— 
One strain the aspiring lark, the gentle dove— 
Hymning the birth-hour of a new day’s love. 
Gay-coloured butterflies in thousand hue, 
White, crimson, brown, purple, and pink, and blue, 
Hover in mystic maze around the throne 
Of her, that’s Mother, and that’s Queen, they own. 
Shout out, O fauns ! He comes, our lord, our king ! 
Ye darling nymphs, your best and sweetest sing ! 
Apollo comes ! See, round his footsteps trail 
Long love-lit streamers, crimson passing pale, 
His golden robes are floating in the breeze, 
His scented breath now moves the bending trees; 
The heather rustles as he wanders by, 
The weeping willow stays her half-heaved sigh, 
The bluebells peal their very gayest chime, 
Too happy, each, to keep in perfect time; 
The hills are ringing with the morning hymn— 
Apollo comes ! All shout to welcome him. 
This hill was sacred to the nymphs and fays: 
Here were they driven in the bygone days 
When men had banished them from off the earth, 
Making them subjects but for jokes and mirth, 
Because they could not class them, specify, or name, 
“ Therefore to being they could have no claim,” 
Argued the wise. 
And so the fays went forth 
And found a dwelling in the tender north, 
And this high hill they made their chief abode, 
The temple and the altar of their god. 
Seldom the foot of man had trodden there 
Upon the hillside rugged, steep, and bare, 
Yet up the slopes now comes a laughing band 
Unto the summits of the sacred land, 
And, halting there, around the altar stand. 
The nymphs have fled away : no friends are those, 
Their long-unseen but ne’er forgotten foes. 
