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| ON Ettrick Forest’s mountains dun | |
| ’T is blithe to hear the sportsman’s gun, | |
| And seek the heath-frequenting brood | |
| Far through the noonday solitude; | |
| By many a cairn and trenchéd mound, | 5 |
| Where chiefs of yore sleep lone and sound, | |
| And springs, where gray-haired shepherds tell, | |
| That still the fairies love to dwell. | |
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| Along the silver streams of Tweed, | |
| ’T is blithe the mimic fly to lead, | 10 |
| When to the hook the salmon springs, | |
| And the line whistles through the rings; | |
| The boiling eddy see him try, | |
| Then dashing from the current high, | |
| Till watchful eye and cautious hand | 15 |
| Have led his wasted strength to land. | |
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| ’T is blithe along the midnight tide | |
| With stalwart arm the boat to guide; | |
| On high the dazzling blaze to rear, | |
| And heedful plunge the barbed spear; | 20 |
| Rock, wood, and scaur, emerging bright, | |
| Fling on the stream their ruddy light, | |
| And from the bank our band appears | |
| Like Genii, armed with fiery spears. | |
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| ’T is blithe at eve to tell the tale, | 25 |
| How we succeed, and how we fail, | |
| Whether at Alywn’s lordly meal, | |
| Or lowlier board of Ashestiel; | |
| While the gay tapers cheerly shine, | |
| Bickers the fire, and flows the wine,— | 30 |
| Days free from thought, and nights from care, | |
| My blessing on the Forest fair. | |
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