Andrew Lang (1844–1912)

THREE crests against the saffron sky,

Beyond the purple plain,

The kind remember’d melody

Of Tweed once more again.

Wan water from the border hills,

Dear voice from the old years,

Thy distant music lulls and stills,

And moves to quiet tears.

Like a loved ghost thy fabled flood

Fleets through the dusky land;

Where Scott, come home to die, has stood,

My feet returning stand.

A mist of memory broods and floats,

The Border waters flow;

The air is full of ballad notes,

Borne out of long ago.

Old songs that sung themselves to me,

Sweet through a boy’s day-dream,

While trout below the blossom’d tree

Flash’d in the golden stream.

*****

Twilight, and Tweed, and Eildon Hill,

Fair and too fair you be;

You tell me that the voice is still

That should have welcomed me.