penser will understand me--in this
uncheerful spot, single in such a country,

'The house was hearsed about with a black wood.'

We have since heard that it was the residence of Lord Traquair, a Roman
Catholic nobleman, of a decayed family.

We left the Tweed when we were within about a mile and a half or two
miles of Clovenford, where we were to lodge. Turned up the side of a
hill, and went along sheep-grounds till we reached the spot--a single
stone house, without a tree near it or to be seen from it. On our
mentioning Mr. Scott's name the woman of the house showed us all possible
civility, but her slowness was really amusing. I should suppose it is a
house little frequented, for there is no appearance of an inn. Mr.
Scott, who she told me was a very clever gentleman, 'goes there in the
fishing season;' but indeed Mr. Scott is respected everywhere: I believe
that by favour of his name one might be hospitably entertained throughout
all the borders of Scotland. We dined and drank tea--did not walk out,
for there was no temptation; a confined barren prospect from the window.

At Clovenford, being so near to the Yarrow, we could not but think of the
possibility of going thither, but came to the conclusion of reserving the
pleasure for some future time, in consequence of which, after our return,
William wrote the poem which I shall here transcribe:--

From Stirling Castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravell'd,
Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travell'd.
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my winsome Marrow,
'Whate'er betide we'll turn aside
And see the Braes of Yarrow.'

'Let Yarrow Folk frae Selkirk Town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow:--'tis their own,
Each Maiden to her dwelling.
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow,
But we will downwards with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

'There's Gala Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;
And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus.
There's pleasant Teviot Dale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow,
Why throw away a needful day,
To go in search of Yarrow?

'What's Yarrow but a river bare,
That glides the dark hills under?
There are a thousand such elsewhere,
As worthy of your wonder.'
Strange words they seem'd of slight and scorn,
My true