And honey-suckle loved to crawl
Up the low crag and ruin'd wall.
I deem'd such nooks the sweetest shade
The sun in all its round survey'd;
And still I thought that shatter'd tower
The mightiest work of human power;
And marvell'd as the aged hind
With some strange tale bewitch'd my
Of forayers, who with headlong force
Down from that strength had spurr'd their horse, Their southern rapine to renew
Far in the distant Cheviots blue,
And, home returning, fill'd the hall
With revel, wassail-rout, and brawl.
Methought that still with trump and clang,
The gateway's broken arches rang;
Methought grim features, seam'd with scars,
Glared through the window's rusty bars,
And ever, by the winter hearth,
Old tales I heard of woe or mirth,
Of lovers' slights, of ladies' charms,
Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms;
Of patriot battles, won of old
By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;
Of later fields of feud and fight,
When, pouring from their Highland height,
The Scottish clans in headlong sway
Had swept the scarlet ranks away.
While stretch'd at length upon the floor,
Again I fought each combat o'er,
Pebbles and shells, in order laid,
The mimic ranks of war display'd;
And onward still the Scottish Lion bore,
And still the scatter'd Southron fled before.
Still, with vain fondness, could I trace,
Anew, each kind familiar face
That brighten'd at our evening fire!
From the thatch'd mansion's grey-hair'd Sire,
Wise without learning, plain and good,
And sprung of Scotland's gentler blood;
Whose eye in age, quick, clear, and keen,
Show'd what in youth its glance had been;
Whose doom discording neighbours sought,
Content with equity unbought;
To him the venerable Priest,
Our frequent and familiar guest,
Whose life and manners well could paint
Alike the student and the saint;
Alas! whose speech too oft I broke
With gambol rude and timeless joke:
For I was wayward, bold, and wild,
A self-will'd imp, a grandame's child,
But half a plague, and half a jest,
Was still endured, beloved, caress'd.
For me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask The classic poet's well-conn'd task ? Nay, Erskine, nay - On the wild hill Let the wild heath-bell flourish still; Cherish the tulip, prune the vine, But freely let the woodbine twine, And leave untrimm'd the eglantine: Nay, my friend, nay Since oft thy praise Hath given fresh vigour to my lays;
Since oft thy judgment could refine
My flatten'd thought, or cumbrous line;
Still kind, as is thy wont, attend,
And in the minstrel spare the friend.
Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale,
Flow forth, flow unrestrain'd, my Tale!
Stil, with wain fundness, could I trace, knew. sen sint Sumlar face
That rent at our evening fire!
From the match è mansion's grey-hair'd Sire,
Wise vinout learning, plain and good,
Jest spring of Scotland's gentler blood;
Wise we in age, quick, clear, and keen,
Show I what in youth its glance had been ;
Whose fum discording neighbours sought,
Content with equity unbought;
To him the venerable Priest,
Our Frequent and familiar guest,
Whose the and manners well could paint
Like the student and the saint;
Alas! whose speech too oft I broke
With gunbol rude and timeless joke:
For I was wayward, bold, and wild,
A self-vill'd imp, a grandame's child,
But hit a plague, and half a jest,
Was till endured, beloved, caress'd.
enied,
ry gale,
opening tale,
e once more
Yarrow shore. aming to the sky, birches sigh,
ats and Ettrick Pen, intry shrouds again:
and flooded mead banks of Tweed.
along the sky,
ack, the snow mists fly; who, in summer sun,
o of our envy won,
pencil, I with pen,
es traced of hill and glen;
outstretch'd the livelong day,
among the heath-flowers lay,
the light clouds with vacant look,
umber'd o'er his tatter'd book,
dly busied him to guide
is angle o'er the lessen'd tide; -
At midnight now the snowy plain
inds sterner labour for the swain.
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