ON TWEEDSMUIR.
Down in the valley, sheltered by the hill,
Fanned by the breeze, and watered by the rill,
Lies sweet Tweedsmuir—a village wrapt and lone,
No tutored township of the sculptured stone,
But a fair hamlet—wild and sweet to view,
Smiling beneath a canopy of blue.
The Tala, running in a wayward stream,
Keeps murmuring like the music of a dream;
Leaping and rushing onward, still it flows
With a sweet cadence in that deep repose.
Fair Tweed, descending from the neighbouring height,
Meandering on through meadows greenly bright,
Greets the lone Tala with a swift embrace,
And, gushing downward with their silvery trace,
Together now, they sweep along the expanse,
Lending a beauty to the peaceful manse.
On a small hillock stands the house of God—
A little church, the landmark of the sod,
Fanned by the breeze, and watered by the rill,
Lies sweet Tweedsmuir—a village wrapt and lone,
No tutored township of the sculptured stone,
But a fair hamlet—wild and sweet to view,
Smiling beneath a canopy of blue.
The Tala, running in a wayward stream,
Keeps murmuring like the music of a dream;
Leaping and rushing onward, still it flows
With a sweet cadence in that deep repose.
Fair Tweed, descending from the neighbouring height,
Meandering on through meadows greenly bright,
Greets the lone Tala with a swift embrace,
And, gushing downward with their silvery trace,
Together now, they sweep along the expanse,
Lending a beauty to the peaceful manse.
On a small hillock stands the house of God—
A little church, the landmark of the sod,
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