Where was thy Elfin train that play Round _Wake's_ huge Oak, their favourite tree; May a poor son of Song thus say, Why were they not reveal'd to me! Yet, smiling Fairies left behind, Affection brought you to nay view; To love and tenderness resign'd, I sat me down and thought of you. When Morning still unclouded rose, Refresh'd with sleep and joyous dreams, Where fruitful fields with woodlands close, I trac'd the births of various streams. From beds of Clay, here creeping rills Unseen to parent _Ouse_ would steal; Or, gushing from the northward Hills, 'Would glitter through _Toves'_ winding dale. But ah! ye cooling springs, farewell! Herds, I no more your freedom share; But long my grateful tongue shall tell What brought your gazing stranger there. 'Genius of the Forest Shades, 'Lend thy power, and lend thine ear;' Let dreams still lengthen thy long glades, And bring thy peace and silence here. SONG FOR A HIGHLAND DROVER RETURNING FROM ENGLAND. Now fare-thee-well, England; no further I'll roam; But follow my shadow that points the way home; Your gay southern Shores shall not tempt me to stay; For my Maggy's at Home, and my Children at play! Tis this makes my Bonnet set light on my brow, Gives my sinews their strength and my bosom its glow. Farewell, Mountaineers! my companions, adieu; Soon, many long miles when I'm severed from you, I shall miss your white Horns on the brink of the Bourne, And o'er the rough Heaths, where you'll never return: But in brave English pastures you cannot complain, While your Drover speeds back to his Maggy again. O Tweed! gentle Tweed, as I pass your green vales, More than life, more than Love, my tir'd Spirit inhales; There Scotland, my darling, lies full in my view, With her bare-footed Lasses and Mountains so blue: To the Mountains away; my heart bounds like the Hind; For home is so sweet, and my Maggy so kind. As day after day I still follow my course, And in fancy trace back every Stream to its source, Hope cheers me up hills, where the road lies before O'er hills just as high, and o'er tracks of wild Moor; The keen polar Star nightly rising to view; But Maggy's my Star, just as steady and true. O Ghosts of my Fathers! O heroes, look down! Fix my wandering thoughts on your deeds of renown, For the glory of Scotland reigns warm in my breast, And fortitude grows both from toil and from rest; May your deeds and your worth be for ever in view, And may Maggy bear sons not unworthy of you. Love, why do you urge me, so weary and poor? I cannot step faster, I cannot do more; I've pass'd silver Tweed; e'en the Tay flows behind: Yet fatigue I'll disdain;--my reward I shall find: Thou, sweet smile of innocence, thou art my prize; And the joy that will sparkle in Maggy's blue eyes.