Beneath its shadow sleeps the Wizard, Scott;
A Ruin is his resting-place—no vile
Unconsecrated grave-yard is the soil—
Few moulder there, but these the loved, the good,
The honoured, and the famed—and sweet flowers smile
Around the precincts of the Abbeyhood,
While Cedar, Oak, and Yew adorn that solitude.
Hail, Dryburgh! to thy sylvan shades all hail!—
As to a shrine, from places far away,
With awe-struck spirit, to thy classic vale