"There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, Both lying right before us; And Dryborough where with chiming Tweed The Lintwhites sing in chorus; There's pleasant Tivoitdale, a land Made blithe with plough and harrow, Why throw away a needful day To go in search of Yarrow? "What's Yarrow but a river bare, That glides the dark hills under? There are a thousand such elsewhere As worthy of your wonder." --Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn; My true love sigh'd for sorrow; And looked me in the face to think I thus could speak of Yarrow! "Oh green, said I, are Yarrow Holms And sweet is 'Yarrow flowing!' Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, But we will leave it growing. O'er hilly path and open Strath, We'll wander Scotland thorough; But though so near we will not turn Into the Dale of Yarrow. "Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burnmill meadow; The swan, on still St. Mary's Lake, Float double, swan and shadow! We will not see them; will not go, To-day, nor yet to-morrow; Enough if in our hearts we know There's such a place as Yarrow. "Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! It must, or we shall rue it; We have a vision of our own; Ah! why should we undo it? The treasured dreams of times long past, We'll keep them 'winsome Marrow!' For when we're there, although tis fair, 'Twill be another Yarrow! "If care with freezing years should come, And wandering seem but folly,-- Should we be loth to stir from home, And yet be melancholy; Should life be dull, and spirits low, 'Twill soothe us in our sorrow, That earth has something yet to show, The bonny Holms of Yarrow." This is beautiful, but the following is more so. Indeed it is the very perfection of descriptive poetry. YARROW VISITED. And is this--Yarrow?--This the stream Of which my fancy cherished So faithfully a waking dream? An image that has perished! O that some minstrel's harp were near, To utter notes of gladness, And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness! Yet why?--a silvery current flows With uncontrolled meanderings; Nor have these eyes by greener hills Been soothed in all my wanderings. And, through her depths, St. Mary's Lake Is visibly delighted; For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted. A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow Vale, Save where that pearly whiteness Is round the rising sun diffused, A tender hazy brightness; Mild dawn of promise! that excludes All profitless dejection; Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection.