On Ettrick Forest's mountains dun br 'Tis blithe to hear the sportsman's gun, br And seek the heath-frequenting brood br Far through the noonday solitude; br By many a cairn and trenched mound, br Where chiefs of yore sleep lone and sound, br And springs, where grey-hair'd shepherds tell br That still the fairies love to dwell. br br Along the silver streams of Tweed br 'Tis blithe the mimic fly to lead, br When to the hook the salmon springs, br And the line whistles through the rings; br The boiling eddy see him try, br Then dashing from the current high, br Till watchful eye and cautious hand br Have led his wasted strength to land. br br 'Tis blithe along the midnight tide br With stalwart arm the boat to guide; br On high the dazzling blaze to rear, br And heedful plunge the barbed spear: br Rock, wood, and scaur, emerging bright, br Fling on the stream their ruddy light, br And from the bank our band appears br Like Genii, arm'd with fiery spears.