"'Tis I, 'Tis thy Winifred!"
_In liquid murmurs Yarrow sings_
_Her reminiscent tune_
_Of bygone Autumn, bygone Springs,_
_And many a leafy June._
_No more the morning beacons gleam_
_Upon the silent hills;_
_The far back years are years of dream--_
_Now peace the valley fills._
_No more the reivers down the vale_
_On raid and foray ride;_
_No more is heard the widow's wail_
_O'er those who fighting died._
_When morning damns with all its joys_
_Then from the meadows rise_
_A hundred throbbing hearts to voice_
_Their anthems to the skies._
_When noontide sleeps where brackens wave,_
_Ere shadows yet grow long,_
_No sound awakes the echoes save_
_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._