Frame: The Scottish Minstrel

STRANGE contrast to each gorgeous vest,
His rough plaid crost upon his breast,
And looking worn, and wild, and rude,
As just from mountain solitude;
Though weary brow and drooping eye
Told wanderer 'neath a distant sky.
Heedless of all, with absent look,
The key of his clairshach he took;
But the first breath, oh! it was sweet,
As river gliding at your feet,
And leaving, as it murmurs by,
Your pleasant dream, half thought, half sigh.