To a Scottish Friend

A ROUND your northern home, where never cease
The ebb and flow of Nith, whose waters glide
Rich with their memories of the Muse; whose tide,
In haunts of moorfowl and the wandering fleece,
Down by Caerlaverock beyond old Dumfries,
To Solway brings its dowry, like a bride;
There do the lowland mothers mourn with pride
The lowland sons, whom War hath lapped in Peace.
But you—be nobly gladsome, seeing that what
Was great aforetime still disdains to fade:
The spirit perfervid of the heroic Scot,
Its fire unfulled, and hardly in earth allayed:
The ancient native prowess unforgot,
Valour undrooped, and manhood undecayed.
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