Will and Davie

Where Yarrow pours her silver billow
Through bowers of birch, and brakes of willow ;
Where loud the grouse crows on the fell,
And sweet the thrush sings in the dell ;
Where milk-white flocks unnumbered lie,
And mirth laughs keen in every eye ;
And plenty smiles from day to day,
Beneath Buccleuch's indulgent sway ;
Two friendly shepherds, blithe and young,
Oft on the greensward sat and sung,
Or scoured the lofty fells together,
And brushed the red flower from the heather.

One morn they tuned, by dawn of day,
On Bowerhope Law the rural lay ;
For such a scene that lay was meet —
As wildly gay, as simply sweet ;
The great may even lend an ear
Wild Yarrow's mountain strains to hear. —
DAVIE.

Ah, Will, these purple heather blooms,
That round us shed their light perfumes,
These sparkling gems of crystal dew,
That morning sky so mild and blue,
Have raised my heart to such a height,
I breathe so pure, I feel so light,
'Gainst all the reasons you can bring,
I must and will my matin sing.
Cheer up your heart, for once be gay,
Screw on your flute, and join the lay.

WILL.

Ah, shepherd, cease ; your idle strain
Adds sharpness to my bosom's pain.
How can ye pour that strain so airy,
That trifling, idle, wild vagary ?
Nor, sadly, once reflect with me
On what has been, and what may be.

As little heeds the lark on high
The watchful falcon hovering nigh,
But flickering his kind mate above,
He trills his matin song of love.
Ah, reckless bird, that lively strain
Thy mate shall never hear again !
The spoiler tears thy panting breast,
And all forsaken is thy nest.

Cease, shepherd, cease, — the case is yours ;
The sky of Britain threatening lowers !
Else, let your strain be soft and slow,
And every fall a note of woe.

DAVIE.

How can I strike one plaintive sound
While nature smiles so sweet around ?
See how our lambs, in many a skein,
Are dancing on the daisied green ;
Their pliant limbs they keenly brace,
Strained in the unambitious race ;
Till gruff old wedders, blithe to see
The young things skip so merrily,
With motley antics join the throng,
And bob and caper them among.

The plover whistles in the glen,
The tewit lilts above the fen ;
Even the hoarse curlew strains her throat,
And yelps her loudest, liveliest note :
The rural joy then must I shun,
So ripened by the rising sun ?
No — while my bosom beats so high,
Responsive to a lovely eye
That pierced it with a gilded arrow,
I'll sing of love, of joy, and Yarrow.

I'll sing that rural scene before me ;
That shady world of placid glory !
See how the afer vibrates o'er
The lofty front of brown Clokmore ;
Beyond Carlevon's rocky crest
The drowsy moon sinks, pale, to rest ;
An angel shade of silken green
O'erveils the cliffs of wild Loch Skene ;
While Border Cheviot, blue and high,
Melts like a shadow on the sky.

From proud Mount Benger's top the sun
His airy course has scarce begun ;
His orient cheek is resting still
Upon the grey cairn on the hill.

The scarlet curtain of the sky,
A wreathed and waving canopy,
Sweels like the dew on mountain flower,
Or frost-work in the southland shower.

The Yarrow, like a baldrick, thrown
Loose on the vale, lies bent and lone ;
A silver snake of every dye
That gilds the mountain, tincts the sky ;
And slowly o'er her verdant vales
A cobweb veil of vapour sails.

Saint Mary holds her mirror sheen,
To moorland grey and mountain green ;
To speckled schell fowl hovering nigh,
To milky swan and morning sky !
There phantom cliffs hang trembling low,
And hoary thorns inverted grow.

Her purple bosom sleeps as still
As sunbeam on the silent hill ;
No curling breeze across it strays,
No sportful eddy o'er it plays,
Save where the wild duck wanders slow,
Or dark trout spreads his waxing O.

Look to the east — 'tis shadow all,
Crowned by yon broad and dazzling ball.
Turn westward — mountain, glen, and wold,
Are all one blaze of burning gold !

Ah, God of nature ! such a scene,
So grand, so lovely, so serene,
Bears the free soul, on rapture's wing,
Before thy diamond throne to sing ;
Above yon sky's celestial blue,
To gaze on glories ever new ;
And list the strains of angel song
From angel harps that pour along,
By fragrant breezes softly driven
O'er suns that sand the floors of heaven
The enraptured youth now ceased to sing ;
But still on ether's waving wing
From echo's cave was borne along
The dying measures of the song :
With eye entranced, and head declined,
They listened to the waving wind, —
Hung on the cliff-born fairy lay,
Till the last quaver died away.