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THE REV. JOHN MARRIOT, M. A.
Ashestiel, Ettricke Forest.
The scenes are desart now and bare, Where flourished once a forest fair, When these waste glens with copse were lined, And peopled with the hart and hind, Yon thorn—perchance whose prickly spears Have fenced hiin for three hundred years,
While fell around his green compeers
Yon lonely thorn, would he could tell
Since he, so grey and stubborn now,
“ Here, in my shade," methinks he'd say, “ The mighty stag at noontide lay: The wolf I've seen, a fiercer game, (The neighbouring dingle bears his name,) With lurching step around me prowl, And stop against the moon to howl ;
The mountain boar, on battle set,
His tusks upon my stem would whet;