lonely green hills. Harden, where her ally, Wat of Harden, abode,
is within twelve miles; and Deloraine, where William dwelt, is
nearer still; and John of Thirlestane had his square tower in the
heather, "where victual never grew," on Ettrick Water, within ten
miles. These gentlemen, and their kinsfolk and retainers, being at
feud with the Kers, tried to slay the Baron, in the Chapel of "Lone
St. Mary of the Waves."


"They were three hundred spears and three.
Through Douglas burn, up Yarrow stream,
Their horses prance, their lances gleam.
They came to St. Mary's Lake ere day;
But the chapel was void, and the Baron away.
They burned the chapel for very rage,
And cursed Lord Cranstoun's goblin-page."


The Scotts were a rough clan enough to burn a holy chapel because
they failed to kill their enemy within the sacred walls. But, as I
read again, for the twentieth time, Sir Walter's poem, floating on
the lonely breast of the lake, in the heart of the hills where
Yarrow flows, among the little green mounds that cover the ruins of
chapel and castle and lady's bower, I asked myself whether Sir
Walter was indeed a great and delightful poet, or whether he pleases
me so much because I was born in his own country, and have one drop
of the blood of his Border robbers in my own veins?

It is not always pleasant to go back to places, or to meet people,
whom we have loved well, long ago. If they have changed little, we