in their nest, While the vintagers lay at their ease, Had he sung in our northern degrees, He'd have sought a securer retreat, He'd have dwelt, where the heart of us flees, With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! Oh, the broom has a chivalrous crest And the daffodil's fair on the leas, And the soul of the Southron might rest, And be perfectly happy with these; But we, that were nursed on the knees Of the hills of the North, we would fleet Where our hearts might their longing appease With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! ENVOY. Princess, the domain of our quest It is far from the sounds of the street, Where the Kingdom of Galloway's blest With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! 

Among the shining salmon-flies;

I scribbled on a fly-book's leaves.

Between grey sea and golden sheaves,

Among the shining salmon-flies.

TO C. H. ARKCOLL.

By the odour of myrrh on the breeze;

That are sweet with the cinnamon trees

Give the roses to Rhodes and to Crete,

With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!

ENVOY

 BALLADE OF THE TWEED.   (LOWLAND SCOTCH.)   TO T. W. LANG. The ferox rins in rough Loch Awe, A weary cry frae ony toun; The Spey, that loups o'er linn and fa', They praise a' ither streams aboon; They boast their braes o' bonny Doon: Gie me to hear the ringing reel, Where shilfas sing, and cushats croon By fair Tweed-side, at Ashiesteel! There's Ettrick, Meggat, Ail, and a', Where trout swim thick in May and June; Ye 'll see them take in showers o' snaw Some blinking, cauldrife April noon: Rax ower the palmer and march-broun, And syne we 'll show a bonny creel, In spring or simmer, late or soon, By fair Tweed-side, at Ashiesteel! There's mony a water, great or sma', Gaes singing in his 

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