Old Strevline, thou stand’st beauteous on the height,
Amid thy peaceful vales of every dye,
Amid bewildered waves of silvery light
That maze the mind and toil the raptured eye;
Thy distant mountains spiring to the sky,
Seem blended with the mansions of the blest;
How proudly rise their gilded points on high
Above the morning cloud and man’s behest!
Like thrones of angels hung upon the welkin’s breast.
For these I love thee! but I love thee more
For the gray relics of thy martial towers,
Thy mouldering palaces and ramparts hoar,
Throned on the granite pile that grimly lours,
Memorial of the times, when hostile powers
So often proved thy stedfast patriot worth.
May every honour wait thy future hours,
And glad the children of thy kindred Forth!
I love thy very name, old bulwark of the North!