If your bold word be crowned with welcome deed,
You'll find us half a bow-shot from the Tweed,
Where, softer than the murmur of a dream,
O'er snow-white pebbles floats the sylvan stream,
And seems as loath to leave her poet's trees
As you could feel to lift an axe on these-
His darling oaks, the children of his hand,
The grace, and destined guardians of the land,
Wherewith his careful love hath painted o'er
In living hues of green, what was before
The roughness of an uncontrasted moor;
And taught the lore at once of sense and taste,
To twenty brother Barons of the waste.-
High streaming in the breeze that sweeps their shade, When the kind bard's at home, his flag's displayed
The flag which Melville sent him down-(but Croker
Suggested that, "My Lords"" prudential poker)
What time the steamer that usurped his name
To England's outraged banner vailed the same ;-
And by and o'er it, dearer far to you,
A vapour grey, slow curling into blue,
Token and pledge of well-replenished board,
When from the topmost tower of Abbotsford
Hammer and bell their airy voices mix,
To speak and welcome the approach of six.
Far leaps that echo bland o'er holt and hill;
Mackenzie hears by Haxel's haunted rill,
And trots it nimbly with his finny load
(Black John pants after) down the craggy road;
Rose hears it, leaning o'er the limpid wheel,
And homeward steers-Sir Humphry winds the reel ;-
The Bard himself, 'mong central woods away,
Pricks up at once his ears and Sybil Gray,
And comes at such a canter by Kæside,
That Laidlaw lifts his brows to see him ride
While all the tail canine partake the fury,
And scarce old Maida's bound out-ury's Ury.
But Gatten's knight was ne'er at distance found
When warlike trump, or peaceful bell should sound-
He long ere this hath gulped the gastric pill,
And, while the dandies deck them, chafes his fill.
His balmy-natured neighbour of the Glen
Hears and applauds his scorn of modern men ;
Sketching, the while, on rim of old Courant,
The fasting fierceness of the veteran gaunt.
O'erskip the final summons of the gong,
And march unmarshalled of the mustered throngBehold us busy in his hall at last,
Cool, airy, sombre, venerably vast;
Where painted casements sunset-glare subdue,
And tinge fair faces yellow, green, and blue,
With heraldries of Harden and Buccleugh—
Where wide o'er wall and roof the 'scutcheons shine
Of many a Baron bold of Border line;
And spears are mixed, and targe and mace between,
The swarthy hauberk and the cuirass sheen,
The glittering scymitar of lordly Turk,
And sturdy Donald's round unvarnished dirk,
Milan's stamped plate, the Norman's shirt of mail,
And the black jack of thieves of Liddesdale,
The cushioned cuisses of the soft Hindoo,
And sterner stuff, the spoil of Waterloo ;—
Not unrelieved, you guess, from space to space,
With horn and hide, the trophies of the chase ;—
Which draw some cockney guest's admiring gaze,
From marvels that would more command your praise
Than ‘auld knick-nackets,' costlier still than these ;-
For instance-soup, yclept 'Meg Merrilies'
Savour whereof nor Gipsy lip partook,
Nor Christian, till great Florence served the Duke;
Portentous salmon, hooked on Rose's line,
By Hinves crimped, and floating in his brine
Baronial haunch from Drummond or Dalkeith,
Or Scrope's lone shieling on his Athol's heath;
Or pasty piled with grouse and ptarmigan;
Or, last and best, what cheereth God and man,'
Of quick Champagne, or Rhine's more sterling race,
In copious cups from many a dewy vase ;-
While he, whose master-touch, ere we were born,
Bade half the world weep Julia's love forlorn,
Unlocks the mellowed stores of sober glee,
Amid the listening children of his knee ;—
Fair England's Ariosto, sly and shrewd,
Brings sweet and bitter fancies equal food ;—
The chief whom Europe hails on Newton's throne,
Shews science ne'er made genius all her own;-
Or gay Sir Adam shines (compete who can!)
At once the Liston and the gentleman ;-
Or he who gives, and most adorns the feast,
Enchants the greatest, and inspires the least—
While grace no more deserts, than wit can fail,
Each bon-mot sparkling mild, each old yet aptest tale.
Now quaighs have circled with the kiss of fire,
And tappit-hens more sober mirth inspire;
Throw wide the gleaming gates—let in the breeze
And bid the shepherd of the Hebrides
Stalk, armed and plaided, underneath the trees,
And ever and anon, with some wild tune,
Salute the rising of the harvest-moon.
But gay strathspey we must not lack between ;
Nor faëry dance upon a circled green ;
Nor harp's sweet string, by gentle fingers swayed,
Some hoary minstrel's Scottish line to aid;
Nor, if she smile (the Queen of Cynosures),
Guitar light touched to love's unconscious lures,
Not perilless, my friend, for ears like yours,
Old as they are, and sated as your brain is
With all the quavers of a thousand anis.
Come gaily forth -or, if you fear to come,
Eschew, unchecked, the merry circle's hum---
Repair where propped in silken pomp repose
O'erlaboured Davy, and victorious Rose;
You'll find the Sharpes and Allans worth your eye,
And ranks of rarest tomes, a rich supply;
And couched beneath, philosopher and bard
On lock or fly disputing hot and hard;
In Byron's urn* expend heroic dust,
Or musing bend by Chantrey's noblest bust;
Or turn "the Sherriff's" pet-companions o'er,
Pitscottie, Froissart, Walton, Wordsworth, Moore;-
* A silver urn, given by Lord Byron to Sir Walter Scott. holds some bones picked up at Marathon-and is inscribed, "Expende tuum Hannibalem," &c.
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