280 AN ANGLER'S RAMBLES 



TO THE TWEED. 



TWINED with my boyhood, wreathed on the dream 

 Of early endearments beautiful stream ! 

 The lisp of thy waters is music to me, 

 Hours buried, are buried in thee ! 



ii. 



Cheering and sinless, the mirth of thy springs ! 

 The light and the limpid the fanciful things 

 That mingle with thine the gleam of their play 

 And are wafted in quiet away ! 



in. 



The voice of the city the murmur of men, 

 Regardless I hear them, and weary again 

 For the lull of thy waters the breath of the brae 

 Brought down in a morning of May. 



IV. 



Go ! hush'd o'er thy channels, the shadow'd, the dim ; 

 Give wail for the stricken and worship to him 

 That sang the old feats of the outlaw'd and free, 

 The legends that skirted on thee. 



v. 



Broken the shell ; but its lingering tone 

 Lives for the stream of his fathers his own 

 And the pale wizard hand that hath glean'd out of eld 

 Is again on thy bosom beheld. 



