[59] ΤΟ THE REV. JOHN MARRIOT, M. A. Ashestiel, Ettricke Forest. THE scenes are desart now, and bare, Where flourished once a forest fair, ' When these waste glens with copse were lined, Yon thorn-perchance whose prickly spears Since he, so grey and stubborn now, Waved in each breeze a sapling bough ; Would he could tell how deep the shade, A thousand mingled branches made; How broad the shadows of the oak, a How clung the rowan to the rock, And through the foliage shewed his head, 66 Here, in my shade," methinks he'd say, "The mighty stag at noontide lay; The wolf I've seen, a fiercer game, (The neighbouring dingle bears his name,) With lurching step around me prowl, And stop against the moon to howl; • Mountain-ash. The mountain boar, on battle set, His tusks upon my stem would whet; A thousand vassals mustered round, And foresters, in green-wood trim, a Attentive, as the bratchet's bay From the dark covert drove the prey, To slip them as he broke away. The startled quarry bounds amain, As fast the gallant grey-hounds strain ; a Slow-hound. Whistles the arrow from the bow, Of such proud huntings, many tales Yet linger in our lonely dales, Up pathless Ettricke, and on Yarrow, Where erst the Outlaw drew his arrow. But not more blythe that sylvan court, Than we have been at humbler sport; Though small our pomp, and mean our game, Our mirth, dear Marriot, was the same. Remember'st thou my grey-hounds true? O'er holt, or hill, there never flew, From slip, or leash, there never sprang, More fleet of foot, or sure of fang. Nor dull, between each merry chase, Passed by the intermitted space; For we had fair resource in store, All silent now-for now are still By moonlight, dance on Carterhaugh ; |