THE Dee is running rough and wild,
Like the years, the kind-hearted years,
On the ringing rocks, the noon-tide past,
As the late summer air grows mild;
For, the Bonnie Queen who braved our fears,
Who hoped our hopes, and always smiled,
Is resting, now, at last.
Dark Loch na Garr, your roaring falls
Be now my sorrow’s muted cry!
Ye burns and streams of Conachcraig,
That weep down slopes and gray cliff walls,
Be tears for eyes from grief gone dry,
As the golden eagle’s distant calls
Moan for our hearts that break.
And you, great pines of Ballochbuie,
Tall silent sentinels of time,
Your scent perfumes the breeze’s sigh,
Your shadows hide my grief’s ennui
For her who loved this starry clime,
And knew the forest’s every tree,
And how to live, and how to die.
Balmoral! Elizabeth’s fane,
The secret garden of her youth,
Your fine crisp air last filled her breath,
O happy haunt of that long reign,
Where left our Queen her heart and troth,
Where thought of her shall never wane,
Who sealed her love by death.
Here on the Brig of Invercauld
I mix my prayers for her repose
With the loud torrents of the Dee.
Into her waters, clear and cold,
I cast the petals of a rose.
Lord, send these, with our songs of old,
To the encircling sea!
© Joseph Charles MacKenzie. All Rights Reserved.