“Low in its dark and narrow glen
You scarce the rivulet might ken,
So thick the tangled greenwood grew,
So feeble trilled the streamlet through;
Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen
Through brush and briar, no longer green,
An angry brook it sweeps the glade,
Breaks over rock and wild cascade,
And foaming brown with double speed
Marries its waters to the Tweed.”