And he—well, has he not lost his?
I feel
The mellow moorland air, gorse-scented, bland
With heather odour, soothes me, like the hand
Of gentle woman on an angry brow.
Were the great-little Scotsman with me now,
Like proud McGregor on his native heath,
Breathing pure-scented, honey-laden breath,
How his cock-nose would drop, his flaming crest
Droop and unruffle! He's a scold confest,