FAREWELL TO EDINBURGH. 117

Tin- strong arm of the rugged sea

A girdle round thee thrown, The gorgeous thistle in thy hand,

That drinks the sunny ray, While graceful on the northern breeze

Thine unbound tresses play.

In casket of the massy rock,

Within yon castled height, Thou lay st thy rich regalia by,

Dear to thy heart, and bright, And clasping Albion s proffered hand,

A tear-drop in thine een, All nobly by her side doth stand,

Though crownless, yet a queen.

I said thou bad st in castled nook

Thy loved regalia rest, And changed it for the olive branch,

That shadoweth brow and breast, For this no more in contest rude,

Or challenge mad with haste, Or savage shock of border wars,

Thy sons their blood shall waste ;

No more, as erst, stern watch and ward

Upon yon hill-tops hold, Where now the shepherd s voice at eve

Doth warn his flocks afold,

�� �