Methought that still with tramp and clang The gate-way's broken arches rang; Methought grim features, seamed with scars, Old tales I heard of woe or mirth, Of lovers' sleights, 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 stretched at length upon the floor, Again I fought each combat o'er, Pebbles and shells, in order laid, The mimic ranks of war displayed; And onward still the Scottish Lion bore, And still the scattered Southron fled before. Still, with vain fondness, could I trace, Anew, each kind familiar face, That brightened at our evening fire; From the thatched mansion's grey-haired Sire, And sprung of Scotland's gentler blood; 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: From me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask The classic poet's well-conned task? But freely let the woodbine twine, Hath given fresh vigour to my lays, Since oft thy judgment could refine My flattened 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 unrestrained, my tale! |