A MOUNTAIN child, 'mid Pentland's solitudes, Thou risest, murmuring Esk, and lapsing on, Between rude banks, o'er rock and mossy stone, Glitterest remote, where seldom step intrudes; Nor unrenowned, as, with an ampler tide, Thou windest through the glens of Woodhouselee, Where 'mid the song of bird, the hum of bee, With soft Arcadian pictures clothed thy side The pastoral Ramsay. Lofty woods embower Thy rocky bed 'mid Roslin's crannies deep, While proud on high time-hallowed ruins peep Of castle and chapelle; yea, to this hour Grey Hawthornden smiles downward from its steep, To tell of Drummond's poesy's spring flower. |