Away from all the restless street,
The whirlpool of the toiling race,
Where Traffic in the dusty heat
Toils with the sweat upon his face.
Away from this; and far away,
Fight the strong wind upon the hill;
Or rest upon the brackened brae,
And shape our dreamland as we will.
What boon to lie as now I lie,
And see in silver at my feet
Saint Mary's Lake, as if the sky
Had fallen between those hills so sweet.
And this old churchyard on the hill,
That keeps the graves of olden time,
So calm, so sweet, so lone and still,
Where solitude is in its prime.
Ah! here they lie, the simple race
Who lived their little flight of years,
Then laid them in this quiet place,
At rest for ever from their fears.
The winds sing as they sang to them;
The waving bracken is the same;
The hills still wear their diadem
Of heather and the sunset's flame.
No change in these; the waves still break
 In ripple or in foam upon
The green shore of Saint Mary's Lake
As in the ages dead and gone.
Beneath the hills, whose shadows seem
Fit haunt for lonely sounds that be,
Flows, half in sunshine, Yarrow stream,
The spirit of all I hear and see.
Thou Yarrow of my early dreams,
When Fancy heard thee murmur on,
A light has left all other streams,
And seems to shine on thee alone.
It crowns thee with a magic dower;
It makes thy windings ever sweet;
The Mary Scott of Dryhope Tower
Still follows thee with unseen feet.
Her name is wed to thine; the vale
Is witness as thou rollest on,
And with thee all the tender wail
Of song with sorrow in its tone.
Men pass from thee; the years prolong
No name of theirs for ear or eye;
But she—a little whirl of song
Has caught her, and she cannot die.
And, lying on the brackened hill,
The sunshine on my brow to-day,
The old love-ballad echoes still
In throbs that will not pass away.
And, as I listen, like a dream
That changes into softer things,
Saint Mary's Lake and Yarrow stream
Take all the sorrow which it sings.