Next day, the motor flying fast, Through Newark, Tuxford, Retford passed, Until at Doncaster we found That we had crossed broad Yorkshire's bound. Northward and ever North we pressed, The Brontë Country to our West. Still on we flew without a wait, Skirting the edge of Harrowgate, And through a wild and dark ravine, As bleak a pass as we have seen, Until we slowly circled down And settled into Settle town. On Sunday, in the pouring rain, We started on our way again. Through Kirkby Lonsdale on we drove, The weary rain-clouds still above, Until at last at Windermere We felt our final port was near, Thence the lake with wooded beach Stretches far as eye can reach. There above its shining breast We enjoyed our welcome rest. Tuesday saw us still in rain — Buzzing on our road again. Rydal first, the smallest lake, Famous for great Wordsworth's sake; Grasmere next appeared in sight, Grim Helvellyn on the right, Till we made our downward way To the streets of Keswick gray. Then amid a weary waste On to Penrith Town we raced, And for many a flying mile, Past the ramparts of Carlisle, Till we crossed the border line Of the land of Auld lang syne. Here we paused at Gretna Green, Where many curious things were seen At the grimy blacksmith's shop, Where flying couples used to stop And forge within the smithy door The chain which lasts for evermore. They'd soon be back again, I think, If blacksmith's skill could break the link. Ecclefechan held us next, Where old Tom Carlyle was vexed By the clamour and the strife Of this strange and varied life. We saw his pipe, we saw his hat, We saw the stone on which he sat. The solid stone is resting there, But where the sitter? Where, oh! where? Over a dreary wilderness We had to take our path by guess, For Scotland's glories don't include The use of signs to mark the road. For forty miles the way ran steep Over bleak hills with scattered sheep, Until at last, 'neath gloomy skies, We saw the stately towers rise Where noble Edinburgh lies — No city fairer or more grand Has ever sprung from human hand. But I must add (the more's the pity) That though in fair Dunedin's city Scotland's taste is quite delightful, The smaller Scottish towns are frightful. When in other lands I roam And sing "There is no place like home." In this respect I must confess That no place has its ugliness. Here on my mother's granite breast We settled down and took our rest. On Saturday we ventured forth To push our journey to the North.