“when, glinting thro' the trees, appear'd

the wee white cot aboon the mill,

and peacefu' rose its ingle reek,

that, slowly curling, mb the hill.

but now the cot is bare and cauld,

its leafy bield for ever gane,

and scarce a stinted birk is left

to shiver in the st itsne.”

“s!” h i, “what ruefu' chance

has twin'd ye o' your stately trees?

hasid your rocky bosom bare—

has stripped the cleeding o' your braes?

was it the bitter eastern st,

that scatters blight in early spring?

or was't the wil'fire scorch'd their boughs,

or canker-worm wi' secret sting?”

“nae eastlin st,” the sprite replied;

“it ws na here sae fierce and fell,

and on my dry and halesome banks

nae canker-worms get leave to dwell:

man! cruel man!” the genius sighed—

as through the cliffs he sank him down—

“the worm that gnaw'd my bonie trees,

that reptile wears a ducal crown.”