THREE crests against the saffron sky, Beyond the purple plain, The dear remembered melody Of Tweed once more again.

    Wan water from the border hills, Dear voice from the old years, Thy distant music lulls and stills, And moves to quiet tears.

    Like a loved ghost thy fabled flood Fleets through the dusky land； Where Scott, come home to die, has stood, My feet returning stand.

    A mist of memory broods and floats, The border waters flow； The air is full of ballad notes, Borne out of long ago.

    Old songs that sung themselves to me, Sweet through a boy's day dream, While trout below the blossom'd tree Plashed in the golden stream.