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And then how sweet the bushy glens between them, Where waterfalls shoot from the rocks and streams, Course on their wimpled way with brawling din!

Where low-roof'd cots, with curling smoke are seen, Each with its little stack of winter fuel, And scanty lot of furrow'd corn-land near; And groups of hardy imps, who range at will, Or paddle in the brook, while bearded goats Browse on the rocky knolls, and kids are sporting Amongst the yellow broom.

Pray thee have done, good Malcolm; thou wilt fill This girl's fancy with romantic visions, Which may, perhaps, make the rich, fertile fields Of her own country seem insipid things.

One thing, you would observe, he has omitted In the description of his bonnie glen,— The cottage matron, with her cumb'rous spade, Digging the stubborn soil; and lazy husband Stretch'd on the ground, or seated by the door, Or on his bagpipe droning some dull dirge.