And Blackhouse heights, and Ettrick Pen,
Have donn’d their wintry shrouds again: 
And mountain dark, and flooded mead,
Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed. 40
Earlier than wont along the sky,
Mix’d with the rack, the snow mists fly;
The shepherd who, in summer sun,
Had something of our envy won,
As thou with pencil, I with pen, 45
The features traced of hill and glen;—­
He who, outstretch’d the livelong day,
At ease among the heath-flowers lay,
View’d the light clouds with vacant look,
Or slumber’d o’er his tatter’d book, 50
Or idly busied him to guide
His angle o’er the lessen’d tide;—­
At midnight now, the snowy plain
Finds sterner labour for the swain.

When red hath set the beamless sun, 55
Through heavy vapours dark and dun;
When the tired ploughman, dry and warm,
Hears, half asleep, the rising storm
Hurling the hail, and sleeted rain,
Against the casement’s tinkling pane; 60
The sounds that drive wild deer, and fox,
To shelter in the brake and rocks,
Are warnings which the shepherd ask
To dismal and to dangerous task. 
Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain, 65
The blast may sink in mellowing rain;
Till, dark above, and white below,
Decided drives the flaky snow,
And forth the hardy swain must go. 
Long, with dejected look and whine, 70
To leave the hearth his dogs repine;
Whistling and cheering them to aid,
Around his back he wreathes the plaid: 
His flock he gathers, and he guides,
To open downs, and mountain-sides, 75
Where fiercest though the tempest blow,
Least deeply lies the drift below. 
The blast, that whistles o’er the fells,
Stiffens his locks to icicles;
Oft he looks back, while streaming far, 80
His cottage window seems a star,—­
Loses its feeble gleam,—­and then
Turns patient to the blast again,
And, facing to the tempest’s sweep,
Drives through the gloom his lagging sheep. 85
If fails his heart, if his limbs fail,
Benumbing death is in the gale;
His paths, his landmarks, all unknown,
Close to the hut, no more his own,
Close to the aid he sought in vain, 90
The morn may find the stiffen’d swain: 
The widow sees, at dawning pale,
His orphans raise their feeble wail;
And, close beside him, in the snow,
Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe, 95
Couches upon his master’s breast,
And licks his cheek to break his rest.

Who envies now the shepherd’s lot,
His healthy fare, his rural cot,
His summer couch by greenwood tree, 100
His rustic kirn’s loud revelry,
His native hill-notes, tuned on high,
To Marion of the blithesome eye;
His crook, his scrip, his oaten reed,
And all Arcadia’s golden creed? 105