Sprinkled like snow-flakes o er luxuriant vales.
Lo ! Time doth hang upon thy misty heights
Legends of warlike and of festal deeds,
Symbols of old renown, the fearful beak
Of Rome s victorious eagle, Pictish spear,
King Arthur s wassail cup, the battle-axe
Of the fierce Danish sea-kings, Highland targe,
And Scottish claymore, in confusion blent
With England s cloth-yard arrow. Yea, each helm
And dinted cuirass, hath its stirring tale:
Yet there thou sitt st as meekly innocent
As though thine eager lip had never quaff d
Hot streams of kindred blood.
Art pleased to hear
No more of border feuds ? Art glad to cast Thy frontier annal, with its crimson stains, Down at the feet of the united realms, Who, arm in arm, survey their joint domain ? So may the God of love bless them and thee.
Sweet flowers thou pressest in our stranger-hands, Rich, red carnations, from " Queen Mary s walk : " But unto her forsaken heart, thy gifts Were only bitter weeds, and rankling thorns, Such as the captive plucks. Methinks we hear Her mournful weeping, as she turns away. With none to pity.
Many a brilliant change
In those delightful landscapes, cheered the eye, As onward o er the fringed banks of Clyde