Sir Walter Scott

Anonymous, "Lines on Mr. Walter Scott" Scots Magazine 71 (April 1809) 286.

Of yore, in Scotia's golden days,
Mid every wild romantic dell,
Some Scottish bard the song would raise,
And bid it on the breezes swell.

Oft listening upon Pentland heath,
The swain, as evening died away,
Would hear it mid the vales beneath,
And deem the sound some angel's lay.

But long the Scottish harps have hung,
Neglected upon aged trees,
Mute, save their mournful strings have rung,
Responsive to the passing breeze.

The swain at evening's dewy close,
No more his favourite notes could hear,
No more the music wild arose,
The breeze alone now met his ear.

But hark! through air what music floats?
'Tis Scott awakes his native strain,
And Echo, startled at the notes,
Returns the well-known sounds again.

By Ettrick's banks and mountains hoar,
By Yarrow's ever-flowery vale,
The Scottish song awakes once more,
And wildly rises on the gale.