Thus while I ape the measure wild
Of tales that charm’d me yet a child,
Rude though they be, still with the chime
Return the thoughts of early time; 155
And feelings, roused in life’s first day,
Glow in the line, and prompt the lay. 
Then rise those crags, that mountain tower
Which charm’d my fancy’s wakening hour. 
Though no broad river swept along, 160
To claim, perchance, heroic song;
Though sigh’d no groves in summer gale,
To prompt of love a softer tale;
Though scarce a puny streamlet’s speed
Claim’d homage from a shepherd’s reed; 165
Yet was poetic impulse given,
By the green hill and clear blue heaven. 
It was a barren scene, and wild,
Where naked cliff’s were rudely piled;
But ever and anon between 170
Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green;
And well the lonely infant knew
Recesses where the wall-flower grew,
And honey-suckle loved to crawl
Up the low crag and ruin’d wall. 175
I deem’d such nooks the sweetest shade
The sun in all its round survey’d;
And still I thought that shatter’d tower
The mightiest work of human power;
And marvell’d as the aged hind 180
With some strange tale bewitch’d my mind,
Of forayers, who, with headlong force,
Down from that strength had spurr’d their horse,
Their southern rapine to renew,
Far in the distant Cheviots blue, 185
And, home returning, fill’d the hall
With revel, wassel-rout, and brawl. 
Methought that still with trump and clang,
The gateway’s broken arches rang;
Methought grim features, seam’d with scars, 190
Glared through the window’s rusty bars,
And ever, by the winter hearth,
Old tales I heard of woe or mirth,
Of lovers’ slights, of ladies’ charms,
Of witches’ spells, of warriors’ arms; 195
Of patriot battles, won of old
By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold;
Of later fields of feud and fight,
When, pouring from their Highland height,
The Scottish clans, in headlong sway, 200
Had swept the scarlet ranks away. 
While stretch’d at length upon the floor,
Again I fought each combat o’er,
Pebbles and shells, in order laid,
The mimic ranks of war display’d; 205
And onward still the Scottish Lion bore,
And still the scattered Southron fled before.

Still, with vain fondness, could I trace,
Anew, each kind familiar face,
That brighten’d at our evening fire! 210
From the thatch’d mansion’s grey-hair’d Sire,
Wise without learning, plain and good,
And sprung of Scotland’s gentler blood;
Whose eye, in age, quick, clear, and keen,
Show’d what in youth its glance had been; 215