The Scottish Celtic review

;;14r, Thp Whh of the Aged Bard.My side stretch gently on the bank,Which soft winds cool and flowers bestrewMy feet laved by tlie grasses rank,That bend beneath the noontide dew.Let primrose pale with beauty dressM}' couch, through scent of waters greenMy hand reclined the daisy pressAnd ealvi ' at my ear be seen.Let blossom-laden trees surroundMy glen's high overhanging browAnd let the aged crags resound\Yith songs of birds from every bough.From clifts with ivy mantled o'er.Let fountains pour their copious flood,And echo multiply the roarOf waters through the solitude.Let voice of hill to hill repeatThe thousand lowings of the herd,That by the rural cadence sweet,My heart's deep pulses may be stirred.Let the soft wing of every galeThe Heatings of the fold prolong,The timid lambkin's lonely wail,The ewe's quick answer to her young.Let frisking calves around me sti-ayAlong the stream, or upland high ;And let the kid, tired of its play,Upon my bosom fearless lie.Oh ! let me hear the hunter's treadAnd bay of dogs upon the heath ;Then youth shall crown my hoary head.And happy visions round me wreathe.The marrow of my bones shall thrill.When the wild chase I hear againMy feet leap swiftly up the hill"At the glad shout, " The stag is slain !'St, John's Wort.