The Yarrow's pensive song.
And when the eve, with calm delight,
Betokens night is nigh,
Beneath the first star's tender light
Is heard the owlet's cry.
While Yarrow's liquid cadence swells
By meadow, moor, and hill,
At morn or noon or eve there dwells
A mournful memory still.
W. CUTHBERTSON.