92 HAWTHORNDEN.
Loud pealing from those caverns drear,
In old disastrous times,
The Covenanter's nightly hymn
Upraised its startling chimes;
Here, too, they stoutly stood at bay,
Or, frowning, sped along,
To meet the high-born cavalier
In conflict fierce and strong.
And here's the hawthorn-broidered nook,
Where Drummond, not in vain,
Awaited his inspiring muse,
And wooed her dulcet strain.
And there's the oak, beneath whose shade
He welcomed tuneful Ben,
And still the memory of their words
Is nursed in Hawthornden.
Flowers! flowers! How thick and rich they grow,
Along the garden fair,
And sprinkle on the dewy sod
Their gifts of fragrance rare.
Methinks from many a heather bell
Peeps forth some fairy lance,
And then a tiny foot protrudes,
All ready for the dance;
Methinks neath yon broad laurel leaf
They hold their revels light,
Imprinting with a noiseless step
The mossy carpet bright;
