SHEEP ON THE CHEVIOT HILLS.
Graze on, graze on, there comes no sound
Of border-warfare here,
No slogan cry of gathering clan,
No battle-axe or spear;
No belted knight in armour bright,
With glance of kindling ire,
Doth change the sports of Chevy-Chase
To conflict stern and dire.
Ye wist not that ye press the spot
Where Percy held his way
Across the marches, in his pride
The "chiefest hearts to slay,"
And where the stout Earl Douglas rode
Upon his milk-white steed,
With fifteen hundred Scottish spears
To stay the invader's deed.
Graze on, graze on, there's many a rill,
Wild wandering through the glade,
Where you may freely slake your thirst,
With none to make afraid;
There's many a murmuring stream that flows
From Cheviot's terraced side,
Yet not one drop of warrior's gore
Distains its crystal tide.
