While Tweed, meandring, lists the bleat Of flocks that crop her flow'ry plains, And echoes back the measur'd beat Of lasses to the shepherd's strains— And while there gleams poetic ray In princely hall or tufted bower, The last notes of the "Minstrel's Lay" Shall tune the soul to fancy's power.
And while on Floddenfield, the muse Sees rival kings their ensigns rear, Fair nymphs, like Clara, will peruse "Lord Marmion's" fate, with Clara's tear: And long as beats in Scotia's veins One ardent pulse of martial fire, The forest flowers on Flodden plains Shall wake the strings of poet's lyre:
While olden-time, with glee, tells o'er The simple tales its boyhood cheer'd; How chiefs, enwrapt in love-lorn lore, With stately pride their standards rear'd: And while, from Helen's fancied grove, On Katrine's wave shall echo wake, The lover oft shall name his love, The lovely "Lady of the Lake."
