Epigraph

In liquid murmurs Yarrow sings
Her reminiscent tune
Of bygone Autumn, bygone Springs,
And many a leafy June.

No more the morning beacons gleam
Upon the silent hills;
The far back years are years of dream—
Now peace the valley fills.

No more the reivers down the vale
On raid and foray ride;
No more is heard the widow’s wail
O’er those who fighting died.

When morning damns with all its joys
Then from the meadows rise
A hundred throbbing hearts to voice
Their anthems to the skies.

When noontide sleeps where brackens wave,
Ere shadows yet grow long,
No sound awakes the echoes save
The Yarrow’s pensive song.

And when the eve, with calm delight,
Betokens night is nigh,
Beneath the first star’s tender light
Is heard the owlet’s cry.

While Yarrow’s liquid cadence swells
By meadow, moor, and hill,
At morn or noon or eve there dwells
A mournful memory still.

W. CUTHBERTSON.