As gathering sweet flow’rets she stems thy clear wave!
Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays!
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream—
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
[At the end of the song Walter Scott goes to a desk at the back of the room, and turns over the pages of a book.]
The Duchess: Bravo! A very beautiful song.
Miss Taylor (very fashionable, rather plain, towards fifty, and not for poetry): And you say he gave it to you?
Mrs. Stewart: He sent it this morning.
Miss Taylor: Rather indelicate, don’t you think—that piece about snowy feet?