No longer Autumn’s glowing red
Upon our forest hills is shed;
No more, beneath the evening beam,
Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam;
Away hath pass’d the heather-bells,
That bloom’d so rich on Needpath-fell,
Sallow his brow, and russet bare,
Are now the sister heights of Yair.
The sheep, before the pinching heaven,
To shelter’d dale and down are driven,