Grows quick that lady's step to hear: 95 At noontide she expects her not, Nor busies her to trim the cot; Pensive she turns her humming wheel, Or pensive cooks her orphans' meal, Yet blesses, ere she deals their bread, 100 The gentle hand by which they're fed. From Yair,--which hills so closely bind, Scarce can the Tweed his passage find, Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil, Till all his eddying currents boil,-- 105 Her long descended lord is gone, And left us by the stream alone. And much I miss those sportive boys, Companions of my mountain joys, Just at the age 'twixt boy and youth, 110 When thought is speech, and speech is truth. Close to my side, with what delight They press'd to hear of Wallace wight, When, pointing to his airy mound, I call'd his ramparts holy ground! 115 Kindled their brows to hear me speak; And I have smiled, to feel my cheek, Despite the difference of our years, Return again the glow of theirs. Ah, happy boys! such feelings pure, 120 They will not, cannot long endure; Condemn'd to stem the world's rude tide, You may not linger by the side; For Fate shall thrust you from the shore, And passion ply the sail and oar. 125 Yet cherish the remembrance still, Of the lone mountain, and the rill; For trust, dear boys, the time will come, When fiercer transport shall be dumb, And you will think right frequently, 130 But, well I hope, without a sigh, On the free hours that we have spent, Together, on the brown hill's bent.