Poems in Two Volumes, Volume 2. William Wordsworth

        Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy Lord!

        Whom mere despite of heart could so far please,

        And love of havoc (for with such disease

        Fame taxes him) that he could send forth word

        To level with the dust a noble horde,

        A brotherhood of venerable Trees,

        Leaving an ancient Dome, and Towers like these,

        Beggared and outraged! – Many hearts deplor'd

        The fate of those old Trees; and oft with pain

        The Traveller, at this day, will stop and gaze

        On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:

        For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks and bays,

        And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,

        And the green silent pastures, yet remain.

        Ye now are panting up life's hill!

        'Tis twilight time of good and ill,

        And more than common strength and skill

                  Must ye display

        If ye would give the better will

                  Its lawful sway.

        Strong bodied if ye be to bear

        Intemperance with less harm, beware!

        But if your Father's wit ye share,

                  Then, then indeed,

        Ye Sons of Burns! for watchful care

                  There will be need.

        For honest men delight will take

        To shew you favor for his sake,

        Will flatter you; and Fool and Rake

                  Your steps pursue:

        And of your Father's name will make

                  A snare for you.

        Let no mean hope your souls enslave;

        Be independent, generous, brave!

        Your Father such example gave,

                  And such revere!

        But be admonish'd by his Grave,

                  And think, and fear!

        From Stirling Castle we had seen

        The mazy Forth unravell'd;

        Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,

        And with the Tweed had travell'd;

        And, when we came to Clovenford,

        Then said my 'winsome Marrow',

        "Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,

        And see the Braes of Yarrow."

        "Let Yarrow Folk, frae Selkirk Town,

        Who have been buying, selling,

        Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,

        Each Maiden to her Dwelling!

        On Yarrow's Banks let herons feed,

        Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!

        But we will downwards with the Tweed,

        Nor turn aside to Yarrow."

        "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,

        Both lying right before us;

        And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed

        The Lintwhites sing in chorus;

        There's pleasant Tiviot Dale, a land

        Made blithe with plough and harrow;

        Why throw away a needful day

        To go in search of Yarrow?"

        "What's Yarrow but a River bare

        That glides the dark hills under?

        There are a thousand such elsewhere

        As worthy of your wonder."

        – Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn;

        My True-love sigh'd for sorrow;

        And look'd me in the face, to think

        I thus could speak of Yarrow!

        "Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's Holms,

        And sweet is Yarrow flowing!

        Fair hangs the apple frae the rock1,

        But we will leave it growing.

        O'er hilly path, and open Strath,

        We'll wander Scotland thorough;

        But, though so near, we will not turn

        Into the Dale of Yarrow."

        "Let Beeves and home-bred Kine partake

        The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;

        The Swan on still St. Mary's Lake

        Float