The family were three—a father hoar,
Whose age you’d guess at seventy years or more,
His son looked fifty—cheerful like her lord,
His comely wife presided at the board;
All three had that peculiar courteous grace
Which marks the meanest of the Highland race;
Warm hearts that burn alike in weal and woe,
As if the north wind fanned their bosoms’ glow!
But wide unlike their souls: old Norman’s eye
Was proudly savage ev’n in courtesy.