The region here was pleasing agricultural
country, and we passed many large and well-stocked farms on our way,
some of them having as many as a hundred stacks of corn and beans in
their stack-yards. After walking about seven miles we arrived at the
dismal-looking village of Buchlyvie, where we saw many houses in ruins,
standing in all their gloominess as evidences of the devastating effects
of war. Some of the inhabitants were trying to eke out their livelihood
by hand-loom weaving, but there was a poverty-stricken appearance about
the place which had, we found, altered but little since Sir Walter Scott
wrote of it in the following rhyme which he had copied from an old
ballad:
Baron of Buchlivie,
May the foul fiend drive ye
And a' to pieces rive ye
For building sic a town,
Where there's neither horse meat
Nor man's meat, nor a chair to sit down.
We did not find the place quite so bad as that, for there were two or
three small inns where travellers could get refreshments and a chair to
sit down upon; but we did not halt for these luxuries until we reached
Kippen, about five miles farther on. Before arriving there we overtook
two drovers who were well acquainted with Glencoe and the Devil's
Stairs, and when we told them of our adventures there they said we were
very lucky to have had a fine day when we crossed those hills.
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